


No Notion of Loving by Halves

by Bittersweet_in_Boston



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Brief Darcy Lewis, Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Cameo from the jetty at Lyme Regis, Columbia University, Craigslist, I’m sorry Ms Austen (oooh), Kissing, M/M, NYU - Freeform, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, New York City, Not Canon Compliant, Only One Bed, Pining, References to Jane Austen, Roommates, Second Chances, Slow Burn, So many tropes, Travel, Tropes, mysterious manuscripts, so much pining, trope-o-rama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittersweet_in_Boston/pseuds/Bittersweet_in_Boston
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition seems to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and has lived nearly thirty-six years in the the world with very little to distress or vex him.Just kidding! Professor James Barnes, known as “Bucky” to his family and closest friends,  tenured associate professor of English at NYU and recognized expert on Jane Austen and late 18-century/Regency literature, may be handsome and clever, but he’s certainly not rich. He has a comfortable home, that’s true - a bijou two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights with a long-term lease - and he’d love to live there by himself, but even tenured NYU professors can’t afford that luxury.So he needs a roommate, and this is where life is distressing and vexing him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 296
Kudos: 457





	1. Craigslist and Compatibility

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to [ Deisderium](/users/%5BDeisderium%5D/) for the prompt. Back in February, they tweeted: “A single man in possession of a walkup in Brooklyn must be in want of a roommate - so begins Prof Barnes’ Craigslist ad. But when the handsome man who answers claims to be in possession of one of Austen’s lost manuscripts, he gets more than he dreamed.” I found that bookmarked tweet again recently and ran with it. 
> 
> In fairness when I started I thought this would be a quick, fluffy 3-4k fic...but here we are. 😬
> 
> Apologies right upfront to Jane Austen. Madam, you deserve better.

James Buchanan Barnes, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition seems to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and has lived nearly thirty-six years in the the world with very little to distress or vex him.

Just kidding! Professor James Barnes, known as “Bucky” to his family and closest friends,tenured associate professor of English at NYU and recognized expert on Jane Austen and late 18-century/Regency literature, may be handsome and clever, but he’s certainly not rich. He has a comfortable home, that’s true - a bijou two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights with a long-term lease - and he’d love to live there by himself, but even tenured NYU professors can’t afford _that_ luxury.

So he needs a roommate, and this is where life is distressing and vexing him. His best friend (and ex) Natasha Romanova has lived with him for the past two years, and she’s been an amazing roommate, but that may be because she’s away so often and so quiet when she’s home. Nat is a visiting fellow at Columbia’s School for International and Public Affairs specializing in security and diplomacy, but she also has an extensive consulting business that takes her all over the world on a regular basis.

(Bucky is actually fairly sure she’s a spy. But every time he tries to broach it with her, she just gives him a Mona Lisa smile and changes the subject.)

And now Nat is leaving for a sabbatical in Russia for a year, doing research on counter-measures to Russian security threats. (Do visiting fellows even _get_ sabbaticals? Nat says they do. Hmm.)

So now Bucky has to find a new roommate and he’s sick about it. At least spring semester is over and he doesn’t have to deal with other major life stressors like first-years freaking out during office hours, or grading dozens of mediocre essays on _Pride and Prejudice._

Bucky always insists he’d love to live in his apartment alone, but if we’re being honest, what he really wants is to live there with a partner. But he hasn’t found the right person yet. He and Nat dated for a short while back in the day, when he was finishing his undergrad at Columbia and she was...doing _something_ in New York, but they figured out pretty quickly that they worked better as friends.

And since then, Bucky has been a dating disaster and cannot seem to find the right person - as he’d tell you himself, ruefully. He dated a few men and women while getting his PhD at Oxford, but nothing seemed to stick.

And as a professor back in New York, it’s been even worse. Bucky’s last boyfriend, a pharma sales manager named Brock Rumlow, was OK in bed but a dud on the personality front, being obsessed with himself, conservative politics, and the gym, in that order. It was a brief affair and ended poorly, as many of Bucky’s past relationships have ended.

“Oh god, Nat, do I have to...” whines Bucky to his best friend as he sits, disconsolate, in front of his laptop at the dining table in his apartment. Natasha, lounging on the couch, looking comfortable and watching Queer Eye with the sound off, turns to him sharply.

“Yes, James, you do,” she says in a voice that really ought to be accompanied by striding around in a dominatrix outfit with whip rather than wearing a purple t-shirt and rainbow leggings and tucking her feet under the cushion. “Get writing so I can edit the shit out of it and we can post it on Craigslist before dinner.”

“But I have to work on my article...” Bucky complains, fidgeting in his seat. And it’s true, he does. He’s behind on writing his latest scholarly work, on the criticality of second chances in _Persuasion_ and _Mansfield Park_ , which is due to English Literary History in September. He’s made very little progress thus far and it’s particularly stressful because there’s a lot riding on this article. Publishing in this prestigious journal is a ginormous deal and could give him a huge leg up for promotion to full professor.

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“You’ve been saying that for months,” she says impatiently. Then she points at him, her eyes steely.

“Write that Craigslist roommate wanted ad right now, James Buchanan Barnes,” she commands, flipping her long flaming red braid to her other shoulder. “Or I won’t let you have any jumbo curry shrimp when we order from Fortune House.”

Bucky’s eyes widen at that threat, which he knows Nat will totally follow through on, and he groans and looks at the laptop screen for a moment. Then he starts typing as quickly and as heavily as if the computer has insulted him personally. He’s done in five minutes, and then sullenly brings the laptop over to the couch so Nat can look at it, noting as he glances at the TV that Tan’s hair looks amazing as always.

Nat scans the text, makes a few minor edits, and pays the five bucks to upload the advert to Craigslist before Bucky can change anything else or make a comment.

“Pretty good ad there, Barnes,” Natasha says, bumping her shoulder against his. “You’re not a bad writer.”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Gee, thanks, Romanova,” he says sarcastically. “It’s not like it’s my job or anything.”

And indeed, he’s kind of proud of the ad, even if it only took him five minutes to write. It starts, as you’d expect, with “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a nice two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, must be in want of a roommate” and goes on from there. It’s sweet and self-deprecating and it gives people an idea of who he is, what he does, and the kind of person he’s looking for to share his apartment.

Nat grins and puts her head on his shoulder.

“You’re the cutest,” she says. Bucky turns and plants a cautious kiss on her forehead. He loves Nat so much, but he also knows that she could totally take him down if she’s so inclined or if he gets too sappy. “We’ll get a slew of... _interesting_ applications,” she continues, “but that’s par for the course when you put anything on Craigslist.”

Bucky sighs. “Will you help me,” he says. “With the interesting applicants,” he clarifies after a moment of silence. He really doesn’t want to deal with any of this and he admits, at least to himself, that he’s a coward and could use some of Nat’s toughness.

“Maybe,” says Nat, snuggling in next to him and turning on the sound for Queer Eye. She hands him her phone. “Now call Fortune House already.”

“You’d better help me,” says Bucky, faux-tough, looking up the number for the restaurant in Nat’s Recents. “If you want to come home next year to a roommate who hasn’t been driven over the edge. Or eaten by cannibals. Or both.”

“OK,” Nat says with a gleam in her eye, and it’s not clear whether that twinkle stems from Bucky’s current predicament. Or the curtains in the latest Queer Eye project’s house. Or both.

*****

As Nat predicted, Bucky’s ad brings out the _interesting_ applicants, and for the first few days he gets dozens of emails from people who offer naked housework for reduced rent, reading Austen to him for reduced rent, or even reading Austen to him while naked for reduced rent.

Many apartment hunters admit to loving Austen so much that they dress up and go to Regency-style social events - and they’d love to live with Bucky and take him with them. While Bucky thinks that’s a charming pastime, he doesn’t need his work life to bleed into his personal life to such a degree.

Plus that one time he did dress up in period costume, as Mr Tilney for a Halloween party, the starch on the high-neck shirt gave him a rash and the woolen breeches chafed his thighs abominably.

One email looks encouraging until the third paragraph, when hugeaustenlover5116 at gomail dot com admits that Bucky gives off a “Mr Knightley vibe” in his classified ad and she’s always dreamed of Mr Knightley fucking her doggy style while yelling “Badly done!” over and over.

Bucky sighs and hits delete.

Nat did promise to help, and she does. She reads half the emails and throws most of them away, but says a handful look promising. She screens that handful by calling them on her burner mobile (see? totally a spy) and declares that Bucky should call two of them. After a day of dragging his feet, Bucky finally steels himself to call the first number.

“Hi, it’s Darcy!” says a woman’s voice, talking loudly over some other voices in the background. The voice manages to sound cheerful and resonant at the same time, and Bucky starts to get his hopes up.

“Hi, it’s James,” he says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. _You can do this, you’re a fully mature adult,_ he growls at himself internally. “I’m calling about...the Craigslist ad?”

“Oh right!” Darcy says, sounding even more cheerful. They introduce themselves and engage in a bit of small talk. Darcy sounds friendly, competent, organized, and very busy with work, and Bucky starts to imagine what she’d be like in the apartment - sort of like a more approachable Natasha, maybe. During a lull in the conversation, he takes the plunge.

“So Darcy, when would you be interested in seeing the apartment and meeting me in person?” he says, in the warmest and least pushy voice he can manage. There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“Wait, what?” Darcy says, her confusion evident in her tone. Bucky starts to get nervous.

“Aren’t...aren’t you interested in being my roommate?” he stammers out. “I-I’m the English lit professor with a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights?”

“Oh...OH,” says Darcy, loud enough that Bucky has to hold the phone a little further away from his ear. “Yeah, sorry. Shit. I was looking for an apartment - I spoke to a Natasha a couple days ago about a place in Brooklyn Heights?”

“Yeah, that’s my roommate. She’s moving out for a year,” Bucky says.

“Well, I was interested, but then my boss’s friend got a fellowship in Argentina and he told me yesterday I could live in his place on Staten Island for free,” Darcy says.

“I really like free,” she continues after a brief pause. Bucky chuckles.

“Totally understandable,” he says through his laughter. Then it’s his turn to pause. “Wait... you talked about a Craigslist ad? When we first started talking?”

“Oh yeah!” Darcy says. “I thought you might be calling about the assistant position. I put an ad in the Jobs section on Craigslist yesterday. My boss is amazing and a very renowned scientist but her work and her life are kind of a mess and I can’t manage it all, so I’m trying to get us some more help.”

“Well, Darcy, I’d love to help but as you can tell, I’ve already got my own job and my own issues. I’m not in any position to be someone else’s assistant,” Bucky says, but he’s grinning. He likes Darcy already.

“Oh well, fuck,” Darcy says, sighing loudly into the phone. “And you sound so nice and normal, too. Well, good luck with your roommate search.”

“Good luck with your assistant search,” replies Bucky. They hang up and Bucky tries not to be too disappointed. His one decent applicant, at least so far, and it’s not gonna work out.

When Nat gets home that night, either from meetings at Columbia or from putting together a plan to take down a large-arms dealer in Kyrgyzstan, Bucky fills her in on his call with Darcy.

“Oh that’s too bad,” Nat says, poker-faced, as she watches Bucky put away the dishes. “She sounded really cool.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Bucky. “I’m pretty bummed, she probably would’ve been great.”

Natasha raises her perfect eyebrows. “Well, try that other number I gave you tomorrow. They sounded OK.”

Bucky sighs. “Yes, ma’am,” he says and closes the dishwasher. 

*****

The next morning Bucky is trying to get up the nerve to call the other number from Craigslist and resolutely ignoring all the work he has to do on his Austen article when his cell phone buzzes. He looks at the screen.

**Steve**

And there’s a 718/Brooklyn number listed.

Steve? Bucky doesn’t know a Steve. Wouldn’t that come up as **Unknown Caller** if he doesn’t know a Steve? How did this “Steve” get into his Contacts? Has Nat been messing with his phone again?

He’s about to let the call go to voicemail when he decides to pick up. By this point he’s gotten curious and hey, if it’s a bot or a weirdo he can just hang up and block the number.

“Hi, this is James,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm and not too high-pitched.

“Hey, is this Bucky? I mean, James Barnes?” says a deep, resonant voice with a rumble in it that lodges deep in Bucky’s gut and sends a little thrill up his spine. “It’s Steve...Steve Rogers. We went to Bishop Laughlin together back in the day?”

“Steve Rogers...” Bucky casts his mind back twenty years to high school and suddenly remembers a short skinny blond kid with a huge heart and a tendency to get himself in trouble for standing up to bullies. They were pretty good friends senior year but lost touch when they went off to different colleges for undergrad.

“Steve!” Bucky says warmly. “Good to hear from you. What are you up to these days?”

“I’m a professor at Columbia,” Steve says. “Studio art.”

“That’s awesome!” says Bucky, smiling at the phone even though Steve can’t see his expression. “I’m an English professor at...”

“NYU, I know,” Steve cuts in apologetically. “I’m friends with Natasha Romanova, and she’s told me all about you.”

“Oh dear,” says Bucky weakly, thinking about all the embarrassing dirt that Nat could dish on him. But he hears Steve’s deep-throated chuckle with a little thrill.

“Nah, nah, it’s all good.” Steve’s voice is reassuring. “Anyway, I bumped into her on campus the other day and she told me you were looking for a roommate. Have you found anyone yet? If not, I’d love to apply for the...uh...position.”

Bucky is pretty sure Steve didn’t mean anything dirty by that last word but nevertheless his breath catches in his throat for a moment.

“Oh yeah...I mean, no, I mean, I haven’t found anyone yet,” Bucky manages to stammer out. _Why is he such a disaster, whyyyy._ Can you come over later this afternoon? We can catch up, have a beer, see if you like the place...”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” says Steve. They talk logistics for a minute and then hang up.

Bucky stares at his phone as if doing so could conjure up a picture of what Current Steve looks like. He remembers High School Steve, with piercings and Docs and blond hair falling in his face, brave and generous with the sweetest smile.

And the drawings! So many drawings, on every available surface as well as in the student art shows. Steve gave Bucky a funny caricature of himself toward the end of senior year that Bucky’s mom might still have squirreled away somewhere at the Barnes family house in Bay Ridge.

If Bucky’s honest with himself, he had a decent-sized crush on Steve that year they were friends in high school, but he never had the guts to do anything about it. It was only in college and, especially, in grad school at Oxford that he was able to really come out as bi. He starts to look forward to seeing Steve later, both as a roommate and maybe as...something else?

Nah, better not to get his hopes up. He’ll be happy if he can just get a decent roommate out of this whole deal.

*****

When Steve rings the apartment doorbell later that day and Bucky buzzes him in, Bucky realizes immediately that he’s not sure he’ll be happy just getting a decent roommate out of this whole deal.

Because Steve is _gorgeous_. He’s still got that dirty blond hair, that sweet smile, those _heavenly_ deep blue eyes, but something happened after high school because now Steve is a few inches taller than Bucky, over six feet, and he is _built_. Like, _superhero built_. His deep blue t-shirt stretches over his shoulders and pecs and his _biceps_ spill out from his shirt sleeves and Bucky feels like he needs to go _lie down_.

Bucky realizes he’s using a few too many italics in his mind right now but if Steve’s face and body aren’t worth excessive italics, he doesn’t know _what_ is. He takes a brief moment to thank the good lord that he himself doesn’t flake out on going to the gym the way he flakes out on writing his Austen article, but also resolves to increase his weight training starting tomorrow.

Somehow Bucky manages to keep his cool through this entire internal freakout, ushering Steve in, giving him a nice bro-hug/pat on the back (“been a long time, man”), directing him to sit in the easy chair in the living room, getting him a beer. It’s the same emergency calm protocol that kicked in when he was panicking inside during his (brutal) dissertation defense back in the day at Oxford. At least Steve is friendly and understanding and not looking to rip him apart like Professor Jarvis and Professor Falsworth were.

They shoot the shit for a while and Bucky manages to collect himself and start acting like a functioning human being. He reminds himself sternly during their conversation that he’s looking for a roommate and a friend, no matter how charming his smile, no matter how lickable his jawline.

“So Steve,” Bucky says, after taking a pull of his beer. “What’s the story? You need a place? Lease coming up?”

Steve smiles and goes a little pink. “Yeah,” he says, shrugging those ridiculous shoulders. “I have a sublet on a studio in Hell’s Kitchen but it’s up when my friend gets back from Florence the first week of June and I haven’t found anything else yet. I tried some Craigslist ads, but...”

“...but there was always some weirdass shit involved?” Bucky cuts in, ruefully, thinking of his Mr Knightley superfan.

“Yeah.” Steve’s mouth quirks up a little on one side and Bucky tries not to think about how it would taste to lick into that corner. “So much weirdass shit. Even when the ad seemed pretty normal and the beginning of the email looked OK...”

“...they’d close by asking you to do them doggy style while yelling at them?” Bucky finishes Steve’s sentence, looking at him wryly.

“Mine required me to participate in black magic rituals and do all my cooking in the nude,” Steve says. They grin at each other and then start laughing.

“Well, Rogers, now’s your chance,” Bucky says, still chuckling. They finish their beers. “Last call. Lay any weirdass shit on me before I ask you to be my roommate and then ask you to grab some takeout with me. Church of Satan? Insist on masturbating into the linen closet? Your girlfriend is a sheep?”

“No girlfriend. Or boyfriend. I’m single,” says Steve. He says this pretty quickly and pretty pointedly, which gives Bucky a pleasant feeling right under his breastbone. Steve thinks for a moment, then goes on.

“I’m really close with my aunt,” Steve says. “She’s a bit eccentric, but she’s amazing and she’s had a pretty extraordinary life. Now she lives in the UK with her wife and I go over and visit them a handful of times a year. And they sometimes come over here and they usually hang out with me a lot...I hope that would be OK?”

Steve shrugs. “It probably sounds strange but she’s the only family I have, so...”

Bucky knows there’s a story there - he remembers Steve’s mom from high school and how great she was - is she not around? Did something happen? But he doesn’t want to push at this early stage in their relationship. Rekindled relationship? Re-relationship?

“That’s fine, Steve,” Bucky says softly. “And it’s not weird - it’s great that you two are so close.” He manages not to turn into the heart eyes emoji in front of Steve, but it’s a near thing.

“Oh, and you might be interested in this,” says Steve, his voice raised a bit in excitement. “Hannah - that’s my aunt - and her wife have a studio in London but they live down in the country, in Dorset, in an old house near the Channel. She and I were FaceTiming the other day and she mentioned they’d been cleaning out their guest house and they found some old literary papers, maybe early 19th century? That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

Bucky’s eyes widen and he just catches himself from dropping his mouth open as he looks at Steve. Steve is an old friend, a fellow professor, sweet as sugar, loves his family, hot as _shit_ , _AND_ he’s got access to long-lost English literary documents? Bucky feels a smile widening across his face.

“When can you move in?” he asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love your comments, thanks!
> 
> To all the “interesting” people on Craigslist, no disrespect, you do you!


	2. Roommates and Reacquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the beginning of summer, so happily Bucky and Steve have no classes to teach, and they hang out a lot, both in and out of the apartment. They still have work to do - Steve goes up to Columbia to paint every day and Bucky’s journal article is progressing slowly but still giving him fits - but there’s plenty of time for fun. They grab takeout together, they binge watch Queer Eye and Nailed It together on Bucky’s perfect living room couch, they go see terrible summer blockbusters at the Regal theaters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No cw, just a fair amount of exposition and some...interesting encounters

Steve moves in early June, right before his old studio lease is up. Most of the furniture in the common rooms of the Brooklyn Heights apartment is Bucky’s, but Natasha’s room is full of her own things. Bucky nags her every day to clean out her room so Steve has a space of his own, and she just raises her eyebrow at him and says “Patience, Barnes” with a smirk.

The day before Steve is due to move in, Bucky is sitting at his dining table, eating breakfast in quasi-despair. Nat comes out of her room - which, incidentally, is still full of her stuff and not packed up in any way - looking flawless in a black jumpsuit and high heels. Bucky gets a peek at the room before she closes the door and lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Really, Nat,” he whines before knocking back a big slug of coffee and picking up his English muffin. “Steve will be here _tomorrow_. With all his _stuff_.”

Natasha pours herself a cup of coffee and sits down next to Bucky.

“Just eat your breakfast, James,” she says calmly and dismissively. “And then get to school. I know you have a meeting with the dean in an hour.”

It’s unsettling how Nat knows the details of Bucky’s work schedule - they don’t share phone calendars or anything - but it’s par for the course. Bucky sighs loudly again.

“OK, Nat,” he says, and finishes his muffin. He stands up. “I’m counting on you,” he says, in the most threatening voice he can muster. She quirks her perfect lipstick at him.

“Go,” she says.

Bucky gets back from school in the mid-afternoon. The door to Nat’s room stands open. The room is completely empty, spotless, and freshly painted - the sashes of the double window stand open to air it out.

As he stands in the doorway of Nat’s room, he gets a text.

**Nat**

_Bye James, don’t be too much of an idiot_

Bucky grins and rolls his eyes. He’s excited about having Steve move in, but he is really going to miss his Natasha.

Steve doesn’t have a ton of stuff, given that he keeps his art supplies at Columbia and he was living in someone else’s furnished studio; and, as he says, “I had some more things a while back, but I gave them away.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows at this and has a bunch of questions, but he doesn’t ask. As with the reference to Steve’s mom, when Steve said his aunt was his “only family,” he doesn’t want to pry, at least not at this stage. He’ll wait for Steve to share, if and when he’s ready.

It’s the beginning of summer, so happily Bucky and Steve have no classes to teach, and they hang out a lot, both in and out of the apartment. They still have work to do - Steve goes up to Columbia to paint every day and Bucky’s journal article is progressing slowly but still giving him fits - but there’s plenty of time for fun. They grab takeout together, they binge watch Queer Eye and Nailed It together on Bucky’s perfect living room couch, they go see terrible summer blockbusters at the Regal theaters.

They talk a lot, mostly about their current jobs and media and the state of the world. For some reason they don’t delve at all into their pasts to find out what got them here. But Bucky figures they’ll get there eventually and doesn’t push.

And Steve and Bucky get along really well. Super well. Almost too well. Bucky is crushing even harder on Steve now than when they first met (again) last month. While he’s sitting in front of his laptop at the dining table and not writing his article, he often dreams of Steve bending him over that perfect living room couch where they watch Queer Eye and taking him right there, but he tries to save this dream for when Steve isn’t around so it doesn’t get super weird.

Steve is super friendly and a great companion and roommate, but he’s also always a perfect gentleman. There’s no crowding into Bucky’s space on the couch, or leaning into him at the movie theater, and every time their hands brush when they both reach for the coffee or the sriracha, Steve blushes bright red.

And while Steve can sometimes be awkward, he’s a great conversationalist - though he often seems to be holding himself back a bit. Is he reserved? Or insecure? Or just not sure about Bucky?

Bucky is disappointed by how gentlemanly Steve acts, but constantly reminds himself that it’s better this way because they’re _ROOMMATES, DAMMIT._ In the spirit of roommately decorum Bucky even tries not to imagine Steve naked and how far down his body his adorable blush goes while Bucky is jacking off, but he’s largely unsuccessful in this endeavor. Dammit.

Bucky does occasionally catch Steve looking at him at times with an intense, smoldering look in his eyes, under those ridiculous eyelashes...but then Steve immediately checks himself and switches over to an innocent smile. Bucky’s not sure what to do with this, although that look does make appearances in his jack-off fantasies as well.

*****

One night in the third week of June, a few weeks after Steve has moved in, they’re sitting in the living room having a few beers. It’s humid outside so they’re enjoying the dry chill of the A/C unit buzzing away in the window.

They just got back from the Alamo Drafthouse, where they saw a film they thought would be a brainless comedy but ended up being really poignant and touching. As a result they’re both a little raw, a little open, a little ready to talk about deeper things, especially under the influence of a little booze.

Bucky is sprawled on the easy chair, drinking his beer and sliding his eyes sideways to look at Steve, who’s sitting on the couch. But instead of his usual upright posture, Steve is more relaxed, slumped down on the seat, his head resting on the back of the sofa.

“So, Stevie,” Bucky says lazily, his courage fortified by the movie and the beer. “I know you’re a bigshot art professor now. How’d you get here? What’ve you been up to since high school?”

Steve smiles and goes a little pink at the “Stevie.” He tells Bucky about how he went to RISD and worked in industrial design for a few years after undergrad, but then his mom died...

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky interrupts, throat tight, eyes prickling. He remembers Sarah Rogers from his high school years, a nurse who was tough as nails but who also had the biggest heart in the world.

“Yeah,” says Steve, visibly swallowing. “It was breast cancer. Happened really fast. Anyway, it knocked me sideways and I had a quarter-life crisis and quit my cushy job at Apple.” He takes a big pull from his bottle before glancing back at Bucky.

“Totally understandable,” Bucky says, looking at Steve with soft eyes. He takes a drink. His mother is the bane of his fucking existence but he’d be completely devastated if something happened to her.

“I wasn’t sure what I was doing or where I was going,” Steve continues. “But I had all these FEELINGS and one day I was passing an art supply store and just went in and blew a huge wad of cash on painting stuff. I’d double-majored in painting at RISD but I hadn’t touched a brush in like two years...”

“Yeah?” says Bucky, trying to be encouraging. He’s a little overwhelmed with how open Steve is being with him, how _honest_ , even though they haven’t been friends for 18 years. But he loves it, loves that Steve finally feels comfortable enough with him to share his life story. Something in his chest breaks loose a little as he leans forward and listens.

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “Then I just started painting like a maniac, like it all came out on the canvas. I painted 12 canvases that fall and winter, just working night and day. Finally an old RISD buddy came over to drag me out for drinks just before the holidays and saw the paintings. She got me a gallery showing in January.”

“That’s awesome!” Bucky says, his full attention on Steve. Steve grins crookedly at him.

“At the gallery opening, I met one of the faculty from Yale, who got me an interview with the department head,” he says. “That fall I started in New Haven and got my MFA and an MA in art history.” He finishes his beer. “Just before graduation, I got a solo show at Columbia. The dean saw it and offered me a tenure-track job a couple weeks later. So I guess I was lucky.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky sarcastically, peeling himself out of the chair and grabbing two more cold beers for them out of the fridge. “I’m sure it was all luck and nothing to do with you being a brilliant artist. I’d love to see your work sometime.”

He passes one of the bottles to Steve and that loose piece rattles in his chest as their fingers brush together.

Steve ducks his head and looks bashful. “Sure,” he says. Then he lifts his head, his eyes twinkling. “That solo show opening party was where I met Natasha,” he says. “She wasn’t at Columbia then, but we stayed in touch and met up again when she came back for that visiting fellowship.”

Bucky chuckles. “Somehow that surprises me not at all. Nat knows everyone and forgets no one. Her personal network is ridiculous. She’s been my best friend for 15 years.”

Steve grins. “Were you college buddies?”

“Well...” Bucky hesitates. “I was a junior at Columbia when I met her and she seemed about the same age but I never did get complete confirmation that she was a student. Or how old she really was. Or is.” He laughs. “We...we...dated for a few months in spring semester but we realized we were so much better as friends.”

“Anyway,” he continues, heartened by Steve, who is now leaning over the sofa arm, listening intently. “I was crazy for English and creative writing in undergrad, and Nat encouraged me so much, helped me edit papers and stories before I turned them in, the whole deal. I got some stories published in a student magazine and then one in _Threepenny Review._ Got a co-writer credit on a Jane Austen article with one of my professors.”

“Wow, Buck.” Steve’s eyes are wide. “That’s amazing.”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to be bashful, and a few sparks go up his spine at Steve’s nickname. Steve is really the only one who’s ever used that version of his name, and Bucky has forgotten how much he loves it. He takes a big swig of beer.

“So I applied to the PhD program at Oxford,” Bucky goes on. “Couldn’t believe it when I got in.”

“Oh yeah, you got lucky, huh?” Steve looks at him pointedly. Bucky chuckles nervously and then actually says “Haha” out loud like the biggest dork in the world. _Get yourself together, Barnes._

“Something like that,” he says. “I spent five years in that program and never worked so hard in my entire life.” He exhales dramatically. “They took me apart but made me such a better writer. I spent another year as a junior lecturer at Oxford and then got the job offer at NYU.” He shrugs. “Got tenure two years ago.”

“Good for you!” Steve says with enthusiasm, lifting his beer bottle up in a cheers. “I’m up for it next year, that’s why I’m killing myself with all the painting right now. I need to have a really strong new portfolio to submit.” He finishes his second beer and looks at Bucky’s, which is almost gone.

“Another one?” Steve says as Bucky downs the rest.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll get it...” says Bucky standing up abruptly...

“I’ll get ‘em,” Steve says, standing up at the same time. Suddenly they are in each other’s space, standing less than six inches apart, looking right into each others’ faces.

Bucky’s entire body goes hot and his voice catches in his throat. The air between them is electric. They are both breathing more heavily, lips parted, and it would be so easy to lean forward and fasten his mouth on Steve’s. Bucky is about to press forward, almost involuntarily...

...when Steve shakes himself and slides sideways toward the kitchen. His face is red and his demeanor both ruffled and nervous.

“S-sorry, Buck, now...now I’m closer to the kitchen, haha,” Steve stammers out and buries himself in the fridge for a minute. While he’s behind the fridge door, Bucky tries to compose himself.

The sensible, practical part of him is reminding him that Steve’s his roommate and such complicated relationships should be avoided, but the smitten side of him is frustrated as all hell. He knows there’s chemistry there - the air in the apartment is still charged after their encounter - but he doesn’t understand what’s going on with Steve.

Steve brings them their third beers, but the open, magical mood of the evening is gone. They drink together and make small talk, but say goodnight and head to their rooms fairly quickly.

Bucky is tired after a busy week, but his brain won’t let him sleep, playing the evening over and over again in his mind. Did he come on too strong? Did he imagine the chemistry after the movie and the beers? Does Steve not like him? Does Steve not like him like that? Is there something else going on? After a few hours of fretting, he finally drifts off into a light sleep filled with anxiety dreams.

*****

The next morning Bucky wakes up late. His restless night hasn’t helped him and he feels hungover - not necessarily from all the alcohol, but from all the _feelings_. He staggers out of his room in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms to grab some coffee. He finds Steve has made a pot already, and thinks with some relief that hopefully this means Steve isn’t mad at him.

Bucky sits at the dining table drinking his coffee and hears voices coming out of Steve’s room. It’s perfectly fine that he’s alone - he’s never really awake until after his first cup anyway - but he does wonder who Steve is talking to.

This mystery is solved ten minutes later when Steve comes out of his room, still talking, holding his iPad. By then Bucky has finished his coffee and is sufficiently awake and un-braindead to remember that Steve usually talks to his aunt in the UK on Saturday mornings. Although he doesn’t usually do so in the common area.

Steve sounds positive and upbeat and comes to sit down at the table, pulling his chair up next to Bucky’s. A little thrill runs through Bucky’s gut but at the same time he gets cautious and goes on high alert.

“Hey Buck!” Steve says. “I’m talking to my Aunt Hannah.” He says this with enthusiasm but also not too loudly, recognizing that Bucky is still waking up, because he’s considerate like that. It’s already been established between them that Steve is the morning person and Bucky...is not.

“Oh,” Bucky says, getting up to get more coffee. “That’s nice.”

“Come talk to her,” Steve insists. “She has exciting news.”

“Ah, no, I couldn’t barge in,” Bucky says, putting up one hand to attempt to smooth out his bedhead (he generally keeps his hair short but lately he’s been growing it out and it’s getting... _tall_ ) and drinking more coffee with the other. “Besides, I’m...I’m not dressed or anything.”

“No worries, Bucky!” says a hearty but kind voice from the iPad. Bucky looks closer and sees a woman with sandy bobbed hair, twinkling blue eyes, and freckles sprinkled across her nose. She looks strongly like Sarah Rogers and it pulls Bucky up a little short.

“Uh, hi, Ms. Rogers,” he says weakly, waving his non-coffee hand in a bashful hello.

“Hannah, please,” Steve’s aunt says, friendly but firm. Bucky likes her already.

“Buck, Hannah was telling me about the papers at her and Theresa’s house.” Steve is too excited to keep quiet any longer and pulls Bucky back to sit down in front of the iPad, crowding in next to him to fit in the FaceTime. Bucky ignores the butterflies in his stomach and tries to keep it together.

“Yes, Bucky,” Hannah goes on. “We found these old papers in an old box in the back of a closet. There are a few letters and the first three chapters of a manuscript. The manuscript is unsigned but the letters are signed by ‘Jane Austen.’”

Bucky’s brain goes offline for a few seconds and he blinks rapidly to try to get it going again. _She didn’t just say that, did she?_

“Wait, what?” he says after a pause.

“I know, right?” Steve says, grabbing Bucky’s forearm. “This is so exciting! Remember I told you about those 19th-century papers when we first met up again? It could be a huge literary find.”

Hannah chuckles on the other side of the FaceTime.

“It could be,” she says, shrugging. “But Theresa and I don’t have a clue. We’d be happy to have you and Steven over as guests to investigate, see if there’s anything in it.”

Now Bucky’s head is spinning. “But...but...there’s no such manuscript. All of Austen’s papers have been thoroughly accounted for. It has to be a forgery.”

Hannah shrugs again. “If it is, it’s a very good forgery,” she says. “I tested a small portion of one of the papers - I don’t know anything about manuscripts but I know a lot about art conservation and verification - and it’s definitely 19th-century linen rag paper from the early or the middle part of the century.”

“Oh, wow. Wow. OK,” says Bucky. “That sounds...very. Very intriguing.”

“Think it over,” Hannah says reasonably. “Talk about it with Steven, but let us know soon if you’re coming so we can make arrangements.”

“OK, that’s great, Hannah, thanks,” Steve cuts in. They exchange pleasantries for a few more minutes and then disconnect, during which time Bucky takes the opportunity to down his second cup of coffee before it gets cold.

“That sounds amazing, right, Buck?” Steve says when the call is over. “What a find for you if it’s genuine! It could be the discovery of a lifetime!”

“But...but...” Bucky is back to stammering. “Really, Steve, there’s no such thing, nothing like this has ever come to light before. And what if it’s a forgery? I don’t want to risk my scholarly reputation...”

“No risk,” Steve interrupts. “You would verify everything, and if it’s not the real thing, at least we get a nice vacation out of it. Hannah and Theresa’s country house in Dorset is amazing, in the middle of gorgeous countryside overlooking the ocean, not far from the beach...”

Bucky pushes his mug away and runs his fingers through his hair, vaguely aware that now he’s making his bed head even worse.

“But my journal article...” he whines. “I really need to make more progress.”

“You can work on it over there,” Steve insists. “And think how much closer to the Jane Austen museum you’d be, if you need to do research...”

“Her archives are actually at Oxford, Cambridge, and University of London, not at the museum.” Now it’s Bucky’s turn to cut in and he does so, wryly and with a withering glance at his roommate. 

“Then the Dorset house is just as good. Still in the UK and not far from any of those places,” says Steve firmly.

“What about your painting?” Bucky asks, though he can feel his will weakening every minute. “Don’t you need to be in your studio for that?”

“I’m doing great on my painting.” Steve is dismissive. “I can spend my time sketching and setting up studies to paint when we get home. And besides,” he says, grinning crookedly, “if I absolutely feel the urge to paint, there _are_ art supply stores in England, you know.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll...think about it,” says Bucky petulantly, his brow wrinkling. He’s a little overwhelmed, still a little chilled and confused over what happened last night and trying to reconcile it with Steve’s warm, excited demeanor this morning. And this whole lost Austen manuscript thing and an unplanned trip to the UK...it’s all _too much._

Steve looks momentarily triumphant and then he turns into a little shit.

“Don’t think too hard there, Barnes, you might hurt yourself,” he says, eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, well, it’s better than people who never think at all,” says Bucky huffily, but his mouth turns up as he says it. Steve turns his full gaze on Bucky, his blue eyes dark, his ridiculous cheekbones shadowed in the morning light.

“Some things are more important than thinkin,” Steve says with a rumble in his voice. But before Bucky can react, he seems to mentally shake himself and turns practical.

“But really,” Steve says, smiling. “C’mon, Buck, let’s go. It’ll be great.” He does a little dance in a circle while Bucky tries very hard not to stare at his _perfect_ ass in his pajama bottoms. Then he lifts up his ridiculously chiseled arms in a cheerleader pose.

“Fuck yeah, Dorset!” Steve yells, pumping his arms like Bucky has any willpower against those biceps.

“I said I’d think about it,” Bucky says, trying to stay strong. But part of him already knows how this is going to go down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Seb’s current longish hair as a model for what Bucky’s looks like in this story - especially when it gets tall. 
> 
> Your comments are always welcome! Trying to do right by those of you in English Lit and/or residing in Dorset. :-)


	3. Travel and Tropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Welcome to British Airways flight 114 to London Heathrow. I’m your cabin director, Frederick Wentworth, ably assisted by our cabin crew. As you find your seats, please move out of the aisle so others may pass...”
> 
> Bucky laughs to himself as he buckles his seatbelt. He’s trying to keep himself distracted so he doesn’t start freaking out. Steve, sitting next to him by the window, elbows him curiously.
> 
> “What’s so funny, Buck,” he murmurs, looking at Bucky sideways, those killer eyelashes making shadows on his cheeks from the overhead light. 
> 
> Lord save me, Bucky says to himself. He’s got no moral or emotional protection whatsoever from those eyelashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a trip across the pond!

_“Welcome to British Airways flight 114 to London Heathrow. I’m your cabin director, Frederick Wentworth, ably assisted by our cabin crew. As you find your seats, please move out of the aisle so others may pass...”_

Bucky laughs to himself as he buckles his seatbelt. He’s trying to keep himself distracted so he doesn’t start freaking out. Steve, sitting next to him by the window, elbows him curiously.

“What’s so funny, Buck,” he murmurs, looking at Bucky sideways, those killer eyelashes making shadows on his cheeks from the overhead light.

 _Lord save me_ , Bucky says to himself. He’s got no moral or emotional protection whatsoever from those eyelashes.

“The cabin director’s name is Frederick Wentworth,” Bucky replies in a low voice.

“Yeah?” Steve says, looking adorable but clueless.

“That’s one of the main characters in _Persuasion_ , you know, that Jane Austen novel I’m writing my article about,” Bucky says with what he feels like is a decent amount of patience all things considered. His stomach is churning a little, from nerves about flying or from his terrible unrequited crush on Steve Rogers, he’s not sure.

“Oh yeah, _Persuasion_ , that’s the one with the woman and the captain and they fell in love before but couldn’t be together and then they all go to the seaside...” Steve is just rambling at this point.

Without a word, Bucky digs into his laptop bag and pulls out a well-worn, much-loved, heavily dog-eared paperback copy of _Persuasion_ and hands it to Steve. Steve looks at it and then at Bucky, a little shamefacedly.

It’s the end of June, maybe a week and a half after Steve and Bucky first talked to Steve’s aunt about the manuscript. It only took ten hours after that for Steve to convince Bucky to go on the trip to England, which he did basically by pestering him to death and turning his ridiculously big blue puppy dog eyes on Bucky all day.

That night Bucky said yes, but on two conditions: (a) that they only stay for a couple weeks, and (b) that they pay for their own (economy) air tickets to get there, even though Hannah and Theresa had offered to buy them fancy seats. Steve readily agreed to both and said he’d make the arrangements.

The next night Steve had knocked on Bucky’s bedroom door with an expression that was outwardly hangdog but excited underneath. He’d made their reservations, but Hannah and Theresa had insisted on upgrading them to World Traveller Plus “so at least we’d get better seats and free booze.”

“Okay,” Bucky had sighed dramatically. Steve had hesitated for a moment, and Bucky, who was learning (and relearning) Steve’s expressions, sensed it immediately.

“What else, Steve,” Bucky had said sternly. When Steve put up his arms defensively, Bucky had said, “Nonsense, out with it, Rogers.”

“They also insisted on getting us a more flexible itinerary,” Steve had said, a small smile on his face. “So on paper we’re coming home on July 16th, but technically we can postpone the return until late August without paying any kind of fee.” Bucky had thought about arguing, but had ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the effort, rolled his eyes and just gone with it.

So here they are on their flight to Heathrow. As Bucky takes a deep breath and leans his seat back once they’ve taken off, he finds himself grateful for the upgrade from economy. He’s still a little freaked out after takeoff. At least it’s just Steve and Bucky in their row, and the flight attendant is even now bringing him a free bourbon on the rocks which will (fingers crossed) calm his nerves a little.

Steve is acting like an excited child. He was fine during takeoff and obviously has no fear of flying whatsoever. He’s attempting to start reading _Persuasion_ , but he keeps leaving off every few minutes to elbow Bucky in the arm.

“Hey, we’re on our way, Buck! Isn’t it awesome?!?”

Bucky smiles weakly at him and takes a big slug of bourbon.

“Awesome,” he says, feeling the satisfying burn of the liquor down his throat and into his gut. With any luck it’ll ease some of his anxiety.

And if he’s honest, he has to admit that some of his anxiety is about Steve and not just the flying. He’s still crushing like crazy but there’s been no repeat of that electric moment in their apartment. Steve has been a really great roommate and fun to hang out with since they got their air tickets, but he’s also kept everything very casual and light and bro-ish. It’s clear he wants to keep Bucky in the friend zone.

And yet in the past week, Bucky has still occasionally caught Steve looking at him intently through those amazing eyelashes, eyeing him speculatively and possessively like he’s some prize livestock Steve wants to take home. It makes Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest, but nothing ever comes of it.

In his darker moments Bucky wonders if he’s just imagining those looks at this point, like some sort of hallucinatory wish fulfillment. So he pushes his feelings down deep and sets to work mastering the art of the friend zone.

But here, on an overnight flight in the wee hours of the morning, Bucky’s feelings come bubbling up, whether he wants them to or not. He’s had a couple of bourbons and some food but neither has helped him sleep. In contrast, Steve basically reclined his seat all the way and passed out as soon as the flight attendants took the dinner trays and is now snoring away, his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky sighs. He wants to sleep but he’s very aware of where he and Steve are connected, which is distracting. And every time he gets close to nodding off, the plane hits the tiniest bump and he jolts awake, staring at the ceiling.

The latest bit of turbulence is strong enough to semi-rouse Steve, who sighs and then murmurs “Bucky...my Buck” in his sleep and snuggles down even deeper onto Bucky’s shoulder, his hand grabbing Bucky’s near the crack between their seats.

At this a completely different jolt tears through Bucky’s midsection and his face goes hot at the warmth of Steve’s hand and his “my Buck.” He realizes Steve is still asleep but it makes both his hopes and his fears rise. He’s not sure he can manage this trip with such a major unrequited crush on his roommate, especially when this kind of nonsense is happening.

But then he takes a deep breath and relaxes, feeling Steve’s warmth seep through his side. He feels cheered and comforted by this closeness, no matter what happens between them, and it’s the most natural thing in the world for Bucky to turn and gently kiss the top of Steve’s head. This is met with a pleased hum, and Bucky smiles. He closes his eyes and within minutes he’s asleep.

*****

Hannah Rogers meets them at Heathrow Terminal 5 Arrivals the next morning. Steve is chipper and excited after a fairly decent night’s sleep, but Bucky is dragging, even after two espressos during breakfast on the plane. He’s not hungover (exactly) but the lack of sleep is weighing on him.

Hannah gives Steve a huge hug and then insists on hugging Bucky as well, even though they’ve never met before. She’s a comfortable-looking woman of medium height and in person Bucky can see that her sandy hair is streaked with silver. She’s got Steve’s coloring but is less physically imposing. They both have the same twinkling deep blue eyes and long eyelashes.

“Bucky,” she says, pulling back after her hug and looking at both of them together. “It’s so lovely to meet you in person. Steven has told me so much about you.” Bucky’s eyebrows go up.

“Nothing too horrible, I hope,” he says, looking at Steve in alarm. Steve grins.

“Not at all,” Hannah says, her grin a mirror of Steve’s. “I’m so glad Steve’s found a good roommate...and reconnected with an old friend.” They head out toward the shuttle to the car park, Hannah insisting on pushing the luggage cart.

In the parking lot, Hannah ushers them over to a gleaming dark grey Audi Q5 and pops the trunk remotely when they get there so they can get the suitcases in more easily. Steve chuckles.

“Theresa lent you her car for the trip, huh,” he says, teasing. He turns to Bucky. “Hannah usually tools around in a Mini Cooper,” he says in explanation. “It’s got a lot of pickup, but...”

“...not a lot of extra storage space,” Hannah says wryly. “We figured you two could use the extra room on the trip south to get comfortable and rest a little.” She horks the big bags into the trunk with an ease that belies her smaller stature.

“Bucky, you take shotgun,” Steve insists, giving him a shoulder check. Bucky pushes back.

“Nah, nah, I’m sure you guys have a lot of catching up to do,” he says. “And besides, I’m so tired, I’m sure I’ll just fall asleep once we get going.”

Steve and Hannah look at each other for a moment. Then they laugh.

“Not a chance, Buck,” Steve says, pulling Bucky into a faux-headlock. Bucky tenses and resists the strong temptation to close his eyes and melt into Steve’s arms. He’s so exhausted and his emotions are running perilously close to the surface. But somehow Steve seems to read his thoughts and pulls him into a real hug, burying his face in Bucky’s already somewhat disheveled hair.

“It’ll be OK, Buck,” Steve murmurs in his ear, and this time Bucky really does close his eyes. Louder, Steve says, “You’re the guest here, so you get the front seat.”

They arrange themselves and head off down the road. Within 20 minutes, Steve is out cold in the back seat, head back, mouth open. Hannah looks in the rearview mirror and smiles.

“Now you know why he wanted you in the front,” she says, eyes twinkling, as she pulls smoothly onto the on-ramp for the M25. “Though you’re welcome to take a nap too. It’ll be a little less than two hours til we get home.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m tired,” he says frankly. “But honestly, I probably won’t sleep ‘til tonight at this point. Too much espresso.”

Hannah chuckles. “Understood,” she says. “It’s why I only drink tea these days. Theresa says I’m more of a Brit than she is now.”

“Will she be at the house when we get there?” Bucky says, curious.

“Yes,” Hannah replies. “Though she has to go back up to town tomorrow. She’s a senior civil servant and has a big meeting with a government minister. Their schedules are a little less flexible than us art consultants.” She grins.

“Hmm, got it,” says Bucky. The whole “senior civil servant/government minister” thing has his Spidey sense tingling. It sounds, ominously, like something Natasha would say.

“Did you ever visit Dorset while you were at Oxford?” Hannah says after a few minutes.

“Drove through it,” Bucky answers. “I had a girlfriend for a while in grad school whose family was from Devon, so I visited her house there a handful of times.”

“But you never went to Lyme Regis?” Hannah says, teasing. “Even writing your dissertation on Austen and everything, tsk tsk.”

“To be fair, that’s not where the Austen archives are,” Bucky says, turning pink and a little defensive. But then he decides he can tease back. “And besides, I didn’t get any extra credit on my dissertation for field trips.”

He pauses for a moment. “Not that it wouldn’t be fun to visit while we’re here.”

“Yes, it would be good for you two to have some vacation this summer,” Hannah says firmly. “Not just sitting around inside poring over some moldy old manuscript.”

“I have to admit that I have my reservations about this manuscript,” Bucky sighs. It appears that they’re going to be frank while Steve snores softly in the back seat.

“I don’t blame you,” Hannah says. “It seems completely surreal to me, and every now and then I wonder if the previous homeowners left it for us as a joke.” She shakes her head. “But as I said, the paper is really 19th century.”

“We’ll see if we can figure out the real story,” Bucky says, letting out his breath. He looks at Steve over his shoulder. “Steve should at least get to relax and have a good time while we’re here. I really need to work on my article for _ELH_.”

“He really likes you, you know,” says Hannah softly. “Just give him some time.”

“Did something happen to him?” Bucky blurts out before he can stop himself. _Holy tap dancing Christ_ , he must be exhausted to the point of delusion to be bringing that up already.

Hannah shrugs and looks in the mirror at her nephew.

“If he hasn’t told you, it certainly isn’t my place to say anything,” she says. But she says it gently and lays her left hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Just be patient,” says Hannah. “He...he’s worth it, I promise.”

Bucky believes her. He looks out the window and resolves to be less impatient and more understanding. But he’s tired and his heart feels raw.

The Audi speeds smoothly down the M3 toward Southhampton and the coast.

*****

They get to the house a little less than two hours later. Steve wakes up magically just as they’re turning off the Fleet Road onto a little gravel lane that overlooks the sea. It’s obvious he’s run this routine before.

The house is not quite a mansion but it’s definitely an old country house, with an imposing stone facade and a couple of outbuildings off the circle of the drive. The house and one of the outbuildings face the bright green fields that slope gently down toward the deep blue of the English Channel, while the other building, clearly a stable converted into a garage, stands on the landward side of the circle.

Bucky tries not to gawk as Hannah honks the horn once and pulls the car around the drive to one of the smaller structures. It’s like arriving at a modern version of a Jane Austen house - maybe not Pemberley or Donwell Abbey, but certainly Longbourn or Woodston Parsonage.

A woman who can only be Hannah’s wife Theresa comes striding out of the main house a couple of minutes later. She’s tall, angular, and gorgeous in her tailored jumpsuit and bears a strong resemblance to Fiona Shaw. As such her face and manner are fairly forbidding, and Bucky immediately thinks that he’d hate to get on her bad side. He girds himself to meet her.

Steve comes around the car first and Bucky hears a warm “Theresa” and an answering “Steven” and is just in time to see them kiss formally on both cheeks. Theresa then turns her attention to Bucky and he feels caught in her intense gaze, light green eyes boring into him.

“James Barnes,” she says, holding out her hand. Her hand is cool, her grip impressive. “Theresa De Quincey. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Bucky is about to ask her to call him by his nickname but stops himself just in time, reasoning that this is hardly the time to go informal. He’s met plenty of older, austere Brits like this during his years at Oxford. He can do this.

“I’m very glad to meet you as well, Ms. De Quincey,” Bucky answers, looking her directly in the eyes and using his “presenting to a senior dean” voice. “Thank you so much for inviting me to stay at your house.”

Theresa’s smile goes a bit more genuine and Bucky realizes he’s passed some test. “Call me Theresa, please, James. It’s always lovely to have Steven and his partners come to visit.”

Bucky’s voice catches in his throat and Steve’s face goes pink, but Hannah bridges the awkwardness, laying gentle hands on both their shoulders and saying, “Let’s get you two settled, shall we?” She opens the trunk and they grab their bags.

“Steven, I know you usually stay in the blue guest room when you’re here,” Theresa says coolly as she leads them toward an outbuilding. “But Hannah and I decided you’d be more comfortable in the guesthouse for this trip. It’ll give you two your own space. And much more privacy.” She clearly thinks Steve and Bucky are together, and nobody seems to want to disabuse her of that notion right now.

She opens the door to the guesthouse and ushers them in. “It’s also where we found the manuscript - in a little hidden cupboard in the linen closet - so that may help your research.”

Bucky walks in and looks around. It’s a lovely one-story house, completely updated but retaining the stone walls and ceiling beams of the original structure. There’s a small kitchen with a dining space beyond on the left, and a living room with couch, easy chairs, and wall-mounted TV on the right. The entire space exudes relaxed comfort and charm.

“Hannah, Theresa, this is beautiful,” Bucky turns to them, smiling. “Thank you so much.”

Theresa smiles warmly back. It looks like he’s passed another test. “So glad you like it, James,” she says. “We’ll give you some time to settle in and rest and refresh yourselves.” She looks at Steven. “Drinks at six, as usual?” He nods, clearly uncomfortable. What is going on?

Once the women have left, Steve turns to Bucky. His cheeks are bright red and he’s got an apologetic look on his face.

“Steve? Y’OK?” Bucky says with some concern.

Steve says nothing, but leads him toward the back of the house. There’s a spacious modern bathroom off the hall and a closed door beyond it. Steve opens it and scratches the back of his neck in embarrassment. Bucky walks through the door.

There is only one bedroom in the guesthouse, and only one bed.

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so there isn’t really anything at that location in Dorset per Google Maps but it seemed like a lovely spot to plop an old country house onto :-)


	4. Consultation and Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, Bucky wakes up slowly and stretches his legs under the sheets. For a brief moment he doesn’t know where he is, and then he remembers. In Steve’s aunt’s guesthouse in Dorset. Where there is only one bed.

The next morning, Bucky wakes up slowly and stretches his legs under the sheets. For a brief moment he doesn’t know where he is, and then he remembers. In Steve’s aunt’s guesthouse in Dorset. Where there is only one bed.

He had argued with Steve yesterday afternoon about this - Steve was insisting that Bucky should have the bed for the duration, and Steve would take the couch - but Bucky refused.

“This is your family’s house,” Bucky had said. “I can’t kick you out of your own bedroom.”

“Well, technically, it’s Theresa’s house,” Steve had said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should have the bed, Buck.”

In the end they’d compromised by agreeing to switch off every night, and Bucky had won the coin toss for first night in the bed. It is a lovely bed - king-sized and just the right combination of soft and firm - the perfect bed to get fucked into by a sweet blond beefcake with ridiculous eyelashes...

Bucky shakes his head to keep himself from heading down that dangerous mental path and gets up. It’s 8 AM and he notes with some satisfaction that he’s slept for 11 hours, _nice job, Barnes_. He heads off to take a shower.

Steve meets him in the little guesthouse kitchen with a fresh cup of coffee and announces that breakfast with Hannah and Theresa is at 9. They head over to the main house - which is gorgeous and exquisitely decorated with bright southern light flooding through the windows - and eat on the patio overlooking green fields that slope gently down toward the Channel, deep blue in the distance. It’s heavenly.

After a few minutes, Theresa gets up. She’s immaculately dressed in a black pantsuit and Louboutin stilettos, with a green blouse that echoes the color of her eyes and diamond and emerald cluster earrings. Her appearance and vibe are exactly like Natasha’s when the latter has “a meeting with the dean.”

“I have to run, darlings,” Theresa says, blowing them all kisses. “Brokenshire won’t tear himself a new asshole, so it’s up to me.” Her deep red lips curl up at the sides.

 _Totally a spy_ , Bucky thinks, but he says goodbye and maintains a look of clueless affability. The last thing he wants to do is end up in Theresa’s black book.

That day Hannah insists Steve and Bucky take a rest after their Transatlantic trip, so they spend a few hours sprawled out on lounge chairs on the patio getting spoiled. Steve has his sketchbook and pencils out and appears to be sketching the view, but Bucky periodically catches him looking his way as his pencil scratches across the rough paper. _Hmm_.

It’s only later that afternoon after their rest that Hannah lets them have the box with the manuscript. They sit around the dining table in the guesthouse.

Bucky is prepared for this moment and pulls out thin cotton gloves for all three of them to wear to protect the old papers while they handle and examine them. As he gives Steve his pair, their fingers brush together and Bucky tries not to imagine what it would feel like for Steve to caress his entire body while wearing those gloves and...

_Get it together, Barnes._

Bucky carefully opens the wooden box, which was once painted white but is now yellowed with age. At least it was kept in a dry place so there’s no evidence of mold and mildew on the outside wood.

Inside are a few single sheets of sepia-colored paper that look like letters, and under that, a set of papers tied together with string that has frayed over the years of being hidden away. Bucky looks at Hannah, willing his hands not to shake.

“Did you test just the letters, or the manuscript as well?” he says, trying to keep his voice even.

“Both,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Both are 19th-century, though with the process it’s hard to pin down a year or even a decade. It’s...not an exact science.”

Steve chuckles. “Hannah is an expert on art verification,” he explains. “She works a lot for the National Gallery, but she consults for museums all over the world.”

“Don’t forget the billionaires, Steve,” Hannah laughs. “Gotta love those billionaire art collectors, they help pay the bills for this place.” Bucky smiles. He picks up a letter and reads it.

“This is pretty mundane content,” he says. “Not clear who it’s addressed to...and the signature looks pretty good, though it’s not hard to fake.”

“Did she ever visit Dorset?” Steve leans forward to look at the letter, his shoulder almost touching Bucky’s. Bucky wills himself not to swallow hard.

“Not that we know of,” Bucky answers, turning the paper over. It’s blank on the back. “But she did live for a time in Southampton, just up the road.” He grabs his laptop and makes some notes.

“Can I take photos?” he asks Hannah.

“Of course,” Hannah says warmly. “You should consider that you have full access and control over these documents, Bucky.” Her eyes dance. “All we ask is suitable thanks and acknowledgement when this discovery makes you a celebrity.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Uh huh,” he says sarcastically. “It’s all about the lifestyles of the rich and famous in the higher education arts and humanities.”

Steve chuckles and shoulder checks Bucky. “Yep,” he says grinning. “So much money. So much fame.”

They look at the letters for another half an hour and then Hannah gets a text. She looks at her watch.

“Theresa will be home in 45 minutes,” she says. “Time to put away the toys for now and attend to the important stuff.” She stands up and strips off her gloves, saluting them as she heads toward the door of the cottage.

Bucky looks confused until Steve fills him in. “Drinks and hors d’oeuvres is the most critical part of the day around here,” he says, eyes twinkling. “If they’re not ready by 6, the mistress of the house is very...disappointed.”

Bucky’s eyes widen as he imagines Theresa displeased. “Can’t have that,” he says. He puts away the papers and then hurriedly stands up and takes off the cotton gloves.

“You catch on fast,” Steve grins. “Knew you were smart.” He gives Bucky the ghost of a wink and they follow Hannah out the door. As he walks across the drive to the main house, Bucky wonders which will kill him first, this manuscript or Steve Rogers. Right now it’s about 50-50.

*****

The next day Theresa has to go back to London and the remaining three get back to the letters and manuscript. The manuscript is titled _Mottisfont_ _Hall_ and features a young woman named Frances Radcliffe. The first chapter introduces her and her parents and siblings, her father William being of good though not noble family with a property in Hampshire. The second chapter takes her and her mother to London to introduce Frances into society.

The third chapter, which is unfinished, ends with someone discussing a young man at the assembly who is due to inherit “Mottisfont Hall” in Kent.

Bucky reads through the chapters several times, both silently and aloud. He looks at Steve and Hannah, who are waiting patiently for him to say something.

“It...could be Austen?” he says hesitantly. “It’s not very strong in the Austen style, but she did do a lot of editing and reworking, so this could be a first draft. The story is similar to _Northanger Abbey_ , but Austen also recycled plots and bits of stories regularly. So...it’s hard to say at first look.”

“I could test the ink as well as the paper,” says Hannah, desperate to help. “But it would only tell us what we already know - that this was written in the 19th century.”

“Well, I guess someone could’ve written it later on old paper...?” Steve offers this up, looking doubtfully at Bucky.

“It’s possible,” Bucky admits. “But I don’t think we’re even there yet. Although we could test the ink, I guess. I need some more to go on. Mottisfont Hall, Mottisfont Hall...” he taps his gloved finger on the dining table.

“There’s a Mottisfont Abbey over north of Southampton,” Hannah says, pulling it up on her phone to show Bucky. “Maybe Austen heard of it or went to the abbey when she was living there? It could’ve given her the inspiration for the name...you could go visit to see if there are any clues, any references to the Abbey in the text.”

“That’s an idea,” Bucky says slowly.

When they bring up the thought to Theresa that night at cocktail hour, she smiles and says, “Oh yes, darlings, that’s a capital plan. Go over to Mottisfont. It’s a lovely place. Beautiful gardens. And if you don’t find any clues about the manuscript, you can make out behind the pillars in the basement and shock the monks.”

Bucky feels his face heat up and sees Steve go red out of the corner of his eye, but he tries to stay cool.

“Dearest, I don’t think there are any monks at the Abbey these days,” Hannah rejoins mildly, but her eyes are dancing.

“Shock the tourists, then,” says Theresa, unphased. “It’s supposed to be overcast with some rain tomorrow, you should go then.”

So they do. Steve and Bucky drive over to the Abbey in Hannah’s little Mini. Being alone with Steve in the Brooklyn apartment and the Dorset guesthouse is tough enough, but seeing his _ridiculous_ body wedged into the driver’s seat of the small car and feeling his _intoxicating_ body heat from inches away and smelling his essential _Steveness_ , is a new level of difficulty for Bucky. He makes a supreme effort to hold it together.

They don’t find any clues about the manuscript at Mottisfont Abbey, but it is a lovely building, run by the National Trust. And every time they pass a pillar in the underground Cellarium, Bucky’s heart beats hard in his chest. It isn’t difficult to imagine Steve shoving him up against the rough stone pillar, his hand fisted in Bucky’s shirt, and devouring him with his mouth.

At one point Bucky closes his eyes in an effort to compose himself, and he hears Steve’s voice, a deep rumble, next to him.

“Y’OK, Buck?” he says. Bucky opens his eyes and looks at Steve. His cheeks are pink and his breath is coming shallower and faster. It’s clear he’s thinking about those pillars as well. Bucky exhales. He wishes he had the guts to just grab Steve and push him against the wall, but his courage fails him. It really will be a miracle if he survives this trip.

The next day it’s beautiful and sunny and warm, and Theresa again has to go to town. The remaining three at the house struggle with the old papers for a couple of hours after lunch, but then finally Hannah’s had enough.

“OK, you two,” she says, standing up and throwing her cotton gloves down on the table. “It’s too gorgeous outside to spend all day cooped up in here, and this is fucking England where hot summer days like this are few and far between.”

She looks pointedly at Steve. “Steven, I order you to take Bucky over to Chesil Beach for a swim,” she says in a voice that brooks no opposition. She can be as impressive as Theresa when she wants to be. “There’s a reason Ian McEwan wrote a novella about it.”

Steve looks a little confused but Bucky grins. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting. He knows the book well. Then he takes off his gloves and stands up. “Guess we’ve got our orders, Steve.”

They change into swim trunks and head over to the beach in the Mini. Bucky is enchanted. Chesil Beach is a thin spit of beach off the mainland and it is worth visiting. The sun is strong overhead, even in mid-afternoon, and the water of the Channel is a strong, deep blue that comes near to matching Steve’s eyes.

Bucky decides that he’s going to put aside his pining for the rest of the day and sets out to enjoy himself. Once they find a spot to settle in, well away from the remaining beachgoers, they slather on some sunblock and lie on their towels to get warm.

Steve pulls his sketchbook out of the beach tote and makes as if to sketch the beach and the scenery, but again Bucky catches Steve glancing regularly in his direction. Bucky is also casting his eyes sideways at Steve to get glimpses of his _absurdly impressive_ pecs and obliques. He’s put aside his pining but apparently his thirst is eternal.

Finally Bucky feels a small bead of sweat trickling down his hairline and decides he’s suitably hot from lying in the summer sun. He stands up without warning and runs toward the water.

“Catch ya later, Rogers!” Bucky shouts over his shoulder as he wades in. The water is cold - quite a bit colder than Coney Island and Brighton Beach at home - so he forces himself to submerge immediately before he loses his nerve.

He swims around underwater for a minute, trying to get used to the chill of the water. His skin is contracting around his bones at the cold and he can feel his dick and balls actively shriveling up between his legs. At least the air will warm and sunny when he gets out.

As he surfaces and opens his eyes, he looks back to the shore for Steve, expecting him to be at their spot, or at most walking slowly toward the water after he’s put away his sketchbook. But there’s no one there, just their stuff.

Bucky looks around, confused. Where did Steve go? He can’t have disappeared, Bucky wasn’t under water that long...

...then suddenly he feels something grab his leg underwater and practically jumps right out of the ocean in surprise.

“Haha, got ya!” Steve yells triumphantly as he surfaces, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

Bucky, still in the shock of surprise, lunges toward Steve.

“Ah, fuck, I’ll get ya, Rogers,” he says, Brooklyn accent strong, as he reaches for Steve’s torso. Steve twists away. They play swim chase for a few minutes, Steve trying to stay away from Bucky, until Bucky makes a last dive and catches Steve around the shoulders.

“Take that, Stevie!” he yells, and Steve yells nonsense back as he tries to shake Bucky off. The game of chase turns into water wrestling as each man attempts to dunk the other.

After another few minutes, they are clenched together in a tight hold. They rock back and forth trying to unbalance each other; Steve has the slight height advantage and the extra upper body strength, but Bucky is using his abs and thighs and remembering moves from his days on the high school wrestling team. So far it’s a draw.

Bucky can feel his torso start to feel warmer against Steve’s as they struggle. Steve’s arms have pinned Bucky’s to his sides and he’s clasped his hands at the small of Bucky’s back, while Bucky’s slipped his arms under Steve’s armpits to grab his back. At the same moment they stop struggling and look each other in the face, only a couple of inches apart, breath ragged, chests heaving.

Before Bucky can react at all, Steve’s eyes darken and he closes the space between them and fastens his mouth on Bucky’s. Immediately Steve’s arms around Bucky move from a wrestling hold to an embrace, gripping Bucky’s lower back like he never wants to let go.

Bucky feels Steve’s _heavenly_ lips on his, _soft_ and _warm_ and _strong_ , and wonders if he’s dreaming. He’s imagined kissing Steve, but the reality is orders of magnitude better. There aren’t enough italics in the world. His heart beats wildly and his eyes flutter closed.

After a minute, Steve tentatively licks along Bucky’s bottom lip and Bucky, brain melting, happily parts his lips. Steve’s tongue enters his mouth and Steve dips him back a bit into his arms, demanding Bucky open up to him. Bucky clenches Steve’s back, feeling his indescribable lats under his hands. He never wants to let go. As Steve pushes deeper into his mouth, Bucky feels his dick twitch a bit despite the cold water and moans involuntarily.

At Bucky’s moan, Steve pulls back from the kiss and pushes away from Bucky. His pupils are blown and his _frankly obscene_ pecs are still heaving, but his gaping mouth is pulled down in dismay.

“Oh shit, Buck, I’m so sorry...I...” Steve says wildly, and without another word, twists away to wade back to the shore.

Bucky stands still in the water. His head is spinning and he has no idea what just happened. Things were amazing... until they weren’t. He knows Steve was into it - _fucking hell,_ Steve started it. Bucky’s chest is also still heaving - with excitement or exertion or both - and he needs a minute to calm himself before following Steve back to the beach.

When Bucky reaches their spot on the sand, Steve is already drying off and putting his t-shirt and flip-flops on. He looks at Bucky and colors a bit as he says, “I just remembered we need to get back to the house to get ready for cocktail hour. Theresa would kill us if we were late...”

He trails off, looks away for a few seconds, and glances back at Bucky, his eyes pleading with him to play along with his flimsy excuse.

For an instant Bucky’s temper flares up and he’s tempted to call Steve on his bullshit, but he takes a deep breath and gets himself under control.

 _This is not the time,_ he tells himself. Although a little voice at the back of his head demands when the fuck it will be time to confront the situation and make Steve tell him what’s going on.

“Right,” says Bucky, plastering a fake smile on his face. “Theresa.” They pack up their stuff and head for the Mini. As Bucky follows Steve back along the sand to the car park, a few paces behind, he can still feel the echoes of Steve’s huge, strong hands on his back, Steve’s tongue in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy...
> 
> So I’d meant to post this earlier this week, but Life Happened last week (as it sometimes does) and I spent this week trying to regain lost ground in a number of areas. I’ll try to maintain a more regular posting schedule for the remaining chapters.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! Always happy to hear your comments!!


	5. Horror and History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky buries his face into Steve’s chest near his armpit and catches a whiff of that captivating smell that is part spicy, part musk, part plain soap, and all Steve. He could honestly stay here forever, warm in Steve’s grasp, small and protected. His heart lifts and all his feelings for Steve overwhelm him for a moment, and then he remembers yesterday afternoon at the beach. He can’t keep going like this, getting his heart all twisted in knots.
> 
> “Steve,” he says, and starts to pull away, reluctantly but knowing it must be done. “Steve, I can’t...” 
> 
> “I know, Buck, I know,” Steve pulls Bucky tighter and his voice rumbles in his chest and resonates against Bucky’s face and Bucky’s stomach drops and he realizes what’s coming. Here comes Steve’s story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some minor violence (in a dream) that will be familiar to all of you

That night, lying in the giant king-size bed in the guesthouse, Bucky has a nightmare. He doesn’t have them often - typically his bad dreams are your run-of-the-mill anxiety scenes about missing a flight or showing up to class without a lesson plan - but a few times a year he has full-blown terror dreams, and this one is a doozy.

He’s cold, so cold, and everything is dark. Then suddenly he’s out of the cold and someone has shoved him out on a street with burned-out and crashed cars everywhere. He’s wearing some kind of black uniform with guns and his hair is long like it was in undergrad and his left arm is...gone? And replaced with some kind of metal prosthetic with plates that shift and flex when he moves it.

His mind is filled with static and the voices in his head scream only one thing: _KILL STEVE_.

Steve appears before him on the street, holding some kind of big disc to protect himself as Bucky shoots at him. He tries to ward Bucky off but Bucky is relentless, deploying brutal fight skills he has no idea how to use in real life but here they are slowly breaking Steve down.

Finally the disc has disappeared and Bucky has Steve by the throat with his metal hand, forcing him against the side of a van that’s stopped in the middle of the street.

“Bucky, no...” Steve chokes out as Bucky squeezes harder. Bucky feels like he should respond to the pleading voice of the man he loves more than anything, but his body continues to follow the screaming order to _KILL STEVE KILL STEVE KILL STEVE._ He watches, almost dissociating, as he keeps squeezing until Steve’s eyes go blank and then it’s cold again, so cold, he’s frozen, he’ll never be warm again, he’s so cold, so cold, so cold...

“Bucky!” a voice sounds, panicky and urgent, in his ear. “Buck, can you hear me? Wake up!”

It’s Steve, but Steve is dead. Bucky’s killed him and everything is lost.

“Steve,” Bucky says with effort. “I’m sorry, Steve, I’m so sorry...”

“Bucky, wake up, honey,” Steve says again, shaking him by the shoulder, and finally Bucky really does. He blinks several times and comes back to himself. It’s dark but light is pouring in from the living room and he’s wrapped up in the guest bedroom sheets. Steve is leaning over him, concern etched on his face.

“Steve,” Bucky says softly. “You’re here, you’re not...you’re here.”

“Yeah, buddy, I’m right here,” Steve returns. “You were yelling and I was worried you were hurt or in trouble so I came in to check. Y’OK?”

Bucky shakes his head to dispel the nightmare, which still seems so real and immediate.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, extricating himself with some difficulty from the sheets. “Had a bad nightmare, s’all. I don’t have ‘em that often.”

“Must’ve been a bad one,” Steve says with sympathy. “You were yelling, ‘so cold, so cold’ when I came in.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, shivering and sitting up. “I was frozen...and then I was some sort of assassin and they told me to kill you and I didn’t want to but I couldn’t stop myself. And...and then I was cold and you were gone and I knew I’d never be warm again.”

Bucky thinks about the metal arm but he can’t even bring that up because it’s too horrifying. His throat catches and his breath starts to come faster and shallower. Steve gathers him into his _strong, strong_ arms.

“Hey Buck, it’s OK,” he murmurs in Bucky’s ear, and then Bucky can feel Steve kiss the top of his head. “It’s OK, I’m here, I’m not dead.”

Bucky buries his face into Steve’s chest near his armpit and catches a whiff of that captivating smell that is part spicy, part musk, part plain soap, and all _Steve_. He could honestly stay here forever, warm in Steve’s grasp, small and protected. His heart lifts and all his feelings for Steve overwhelm him for a moment, and then he remembers yesterday afternoon at the beach. He can’t keep going like this, getting his heart all twisted in knots.

“Steve,” he says, and starts to pull away, reluctantly but knowing it must be done. “Steve, I can’t...”

“I know, Buck, I know,” Steve pulls Bucky tighter and his voice rumbles in his chest and resonates against Bucky’s face and Bucky’s stomach drops and he realizes what’s coming. Here comes Steve’s story.

“Buck, you deserve to know what’s going on with me,” Steve says in Bucky’s ear with a sigh. He’s quiet for a minute. “In my third year of my program at Yale, I went to a party and met a woman I thought was the love of my life. She was a PhD candidate in Political Science. A Brit. Tall, whip-smart, beautiful, and strong. Long dark hair. She commanded every room she walked into. Peggy. Peggy Carter.”

Steve sighs. Bucky’s heart turns over. He finds he can picture this kickass Brit named Peggy Carter very clearly, especially since he went to Oxford, where there were plenty of kickass women in every department.

“Anyway,” Steve goes on, “We hit it off and started dating. I could hardly believe my luck - she could’ve had anyone but she picked me, you know? We were together all through the rest of our programs and soon after I got my job at Columbia, she got a tenure-track offer at Yale.”

“I was so thrilled,” Steve murmurs, rubbing down Bucky’s arm. “You know how hard it is to find jobs in the same region, much less in adjoining states.” Bucky nods against Steve’s shoulder. “We made the long-distance thing work for three years. I took Metro North to New Haven almost every weekend, unless she came down to the city.”

Steve exhales and bumps his forehead against the top of Bucky’s head. It’s obvious he’s having trouble looking Bucky in the face while he’s telling this story, but doesn’t want to stop touching him. Bucky tries to protect his heart while also listening sympathetically and feeling his body call out to Steve’s on a cellular level, their warmth intermingling.

“We’d been together for five years, and I was smitten. Just so in love,” Steve says, his voice breaking on the “love.” Bucky rubs his back, feeling the knobs of his spine through his thin t-shirt.

“I started thinking about talking to her about marriage. One weekend right before Thanksgiving, she came down to New York, saying she had something important to talk about. I thought we were on the same wavelength. I splurged on an expensive bottle of wine, got us reservations at our favorite bistro.”

Steve is quiet for a minute. Bucky can hear his own heart beating loudly in his ears.

“At the bistro, before I could say anything,” Steve continues. “Peggy told me she’d gotten her dream job, as a full professor at Cambridge with a titled chair.”

Bucky starts in surprise and pulls back from Steve’s armpit to look at him in the face.

“Holy shit, Steve,” Bucky says, eyes wide. “That’s...that’s unheard of for someone our age.”

“I know,” Steve says, looking rueful. “It was a testament to how amazing she was...how amazing she is. I was so excited for her. I began to talk about how we could make it work, maybe I could get a job over here in the UK...”

Bucky is silent, but looks down and grabs Steve’s hand. He can guess what’s coming.

“And then...” he prompts.

“And then...Peggy told me she was breaking up with me. She’d met someone at Yale, someone who was it for her. Angie,” Steve says, frowning. “She said, ‘I think we’ve both seen this coming, we’ve both been falling out of love for a long time. This UK offer just solidified it for me. It’ll be a clean break for both of us.’”

Bucky looks up to see Steve’s eyes shiny in the dim light.

“But you didn’t see it coming,” he says softly, running his thumb over the back of Steve’s hand.

“Not at all,” Steve sniffs. “I was totally blindsided. I went along with her wish to end everything ‘cleanly’ and we broke up. Said goodbye and wished each other well. I deleted her from my Contacts. Haven’t seen her since. But I was heartbroken and angry, Buck...so angry. I finished teaching that semester like a zombie and then escaped over here for the winter holiday. Hannah and Theresa took care of me. I hid myself in this bedroom. Drank a lot. Went swimming at Chesil right before New Year’s.”

“I hope you wore a wetsuit,” says Bucky, incredulous.

“Nope,” Steve chuckles wryly. “Almost froze my nards off.” He looks at the ceiling. “Anyway, I went back to school for spring semester, got a therapist, started to try to pull myself back together. I got rid of most of my furniture and moved out of the apartment she used to visit and into my friend’s studio. But it’s been tough. It’s been 18 months, and I’ve worked really hard to get to a better place, but I’m still hesitant. I’ve dated casually a bit since then, but nothing serious.”

He pauses for a minute, looks down, and grabs Bucky’s hand between his. He swallows visibly before continuing. 

“I lo— I _like_ you, Bucky,” he says, looking Bucky directly in the face. “I mean, I _really_ like you. I liked you in high school and I like you even more now...as you probably figured out this afternoon.”

 _Among other times,_ Bucky’s obnoxious inner voice interjects, but he doesn’t say it out loud.

“But listen, Buck,” Steve says. “I’m just...I’m not _ready_ for a serious relationship yet. I keep thinking I’m ready to jump back in, and then I freak out. It’s too much. Guess I’m still gunshy.”

“Hmm,” says Bucky softly.

“And also,” Steve goes on, as if determined to get it all out, “it just seems weird for us to be in a relationship when I’m your sub-lessee...your tenant. What if things go bad and then we still have to live together? That would be so awkward.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says again. And at that moment, with the awful clarity of someone who’s overbalancing on the edge of a tall cliff before they fall, he realizes just how gone he is on Steve Rogers. He’s really gone. _Totally_ gone. _Completely_ gone.

 _Oh god, I love him so much_ , Bucky thinks to himself with a jolt.

Steve lifts Bucky’s hand up between them.

“So can we just be friends? I like you so much, and l love being your friend and I don’t want anything to ruin that,” Steve says. The sincerity of his voice and pleading in his eyes make Bucky want to melt. He’d do anything for this man. Even break his own heart.

“Of course, Steve, of course,” he says, as calmly as possible for someone who’s just had a world-rending emotional epiphany. “I totally get it. I love being your friend, too.” Bucky very purposely lowers his voice on the word “friend” so it doesn’t wobble.

“Oh good, thank you, Buck, it’s gonna be great, I promise,” Steve says, dropping Bucky’s hand and enveloping him in a patented Steve Rogers(TM) bear hug. Bucky tries not to inhale that special Steve scent and fails miserably. “We’re going to get so much work done and have so much fun on this trip. You’ll finish your article and I’ll get all these studies for my portfolio...and I’m sure we’ll decipher that manuscript.”

“Yeah, right, the manuscript,” Bucky says with more fervor than he feels. At this moment all he wants is to pitch the manuscript into the Channel and run home to tuck himself into his bedroom in Brooklyn Heights with a stiff drink and several Netflix binges.

He thinks of the old wooden box the manuscript is kept in, and imagines folding all his emotions neatly into just such a box, to be opened only when appropriate. Or never.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to sleep,” Steve says, standing and stretching his arms over his head. His t-shirt rucks up to display a few inches of _delicious_ lower abdomen, skin that Bucky doesn’t imagine under his tongue. Really and truly. That thought is securely hidden in the box.

“Goodnight, see you in the morning,” Steve says, heading out of the room and closing the door.

“Goodnight, Steve,” Bucky says softly, sliding back onto the mattress and laying his head on the pillow. His heart and head feel leaden but his body feels like it could blow away in the wind like a dandelion seed.

He thinks about calling Nat but it’s 2 AM in the UK and thus only 5 Moscow. Knowing Nat, she’s either sleeping or in the middle of conducting a three-day interrogation of some poor sap who knows too much about money laundering and cyber fraud.

Bucky closes his eyes. His brain is racing. It’s all been too much. He’s promised friendship with Steve but he’s not sure how he can manage it. His mind casts back to his nightmare, and the dread he felt in that dream is more dramatic, sure, but it wasn’t real like the weight that’s now settled on his heart. The emotions he’s tucked into that imaginary box are locked up but they haven’t gone away. How can he do this?

He tries to go back to sleep but it’s a long time before he drifts off into blessed oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this got angstier than I originally intended, sorryyyyyy!!
> 
> I promise that, as in Jane Austen, everything turns out alright and the main characters get their happy ending. 
> 
> My feeling is that it would be nigh-impossible for someone in their early to mid-thirties to pull off a full chair at Cambridge, but if anyone could do it, it would be Peggy.


	6. Day Trip and Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “James, darling,” Theresa says as she puts her teacup down. Bucky looks up from his coffee, alarm in his eyes. Theresa makes her best attempt at a warm smile. 
> 
> “James, darling, you and Steven should go over to Lyme Regis today,” she continues, the authority in her voice very marked. “It’s ridiculous that you’ve never been, you being an Austen scholar and all. It’ll give you some inspiration for your ELH article as well - it is partly about Persuasion, after all, right? And it’s a perfect day for an excursion.”
> 
> Bucky starts to say, “But what about the manuscript...” when Theresa cuts him off.
> 
> “Oh darling, fuck the manuscript,” she says, in the same voice that she’d ask a duchess to tea. Both Bucky and Steve look like they’ve been slapped on the back and their eyes widen. Hannah hides her smile behind her teacup.

The next morning is cooler, with a light breeze and clouds drifting over the fields and the sea. Bucky wakes up tired, but manages to shower, throw on some clothes, and make it to breakfast on time. He’s tempted to skip breakfast and go back to bed, but his terror of Theresa outweighs his exhaustion and he settles carefully in his chair on the patio right at 9 am.

“Good morning,” Bucky says quietly, trying to smile at everyone without really looking anyone, and particularly Steve, in the face. Then he grabs his coffee and drinks it, absorbed, as if it’s the one thing that’s going to keep him upright.

Hannah looks at him and at Steve, whose hundred-mile stare out at the Channel is somehow marked by both uncertainty and determination...or is it stubbornness? And then she looks pointedly at Theresa, who is calmly drinking her English Breakfast and feigning not to notice anything, though of course she’s aware of everything.

Theresa glances at Bucky and sees his pale face and the tragic expression he’s trying and utterly failing to hide. She looks at Hannah with an expression that says, _I got this_.

“James, darling,” Theresa says as she puts her teacup down. Bucky looks up from his coffee, alarm in his eyes. Theresa makes her best attempt at a warm smile.

“James, darling, you and Steven should go over to Lyme Regis today,” she continues, the authority in her voice very marked. “It’s ridiculous that you’ve never been, you being an Austen scholar and all. It’ll give you some inspiration for your _ELH_ article as well - it is partly about _Persuasion_ , after all, right? And it’s a perfect day for an excursion.”

Bucky starts to say, “But what about the manuscript...” when Theresa cuts him off.

“Oh darling, fuck the manuscript,” she says, in the same voice that she’d ask a duchess to tea. Both Bucky and Steve look like they’ve been slapped on the back and their eyes widen. Hannah hides her smile behind her teacup.

“Seriously, though, the manuscript will be here tomorrow, and the day after,” Theresa goes on, looking straight at Bucky. “Go off and have a lovely day out. Be Anne Elliott. Walk along the jetty and talk about poetry. Have lunch at the Ship Inn - mention my name to the manager and you’ll get free drinks.”

Steve is about to interject when Hannah lays her hand on his leg under the table. He shuts up.

Bucky thinks about this. It wouldn’t have been his first choice of activity for the day, especially after his horrible night, but he can’t deny it’s got its attractions. His brain is fuzzy from lack of sleep and the last thing he wants to do is pore over old papers right now. And it _is_ a lovely day.

_And_ , his inner voice pipes up, _you can start working on being just friends with Steve. Gotta start sometime. Might as well be now._

“That sounds great, Theresa, thanks for the suggestion,” Bucky says, smiling at her. He turns to look directly at Steve, trying to put some resolve into his voice. “Steve, does that work for you...?”

“Y-Yeah, that sounds great,” Steve stammers out as Hannah squeezes his leg hard. “I haven’t been to Lyme Regis in a long time.” He looks just as determinedly at Bucky. “It’ll be great to show it to you, Buck.”

“Excellent,” Theresa says smoothly. She finishes her soft-boiled egg and her tea and stands up. As usual, she is immaculately dressed, this time in a sleeveless navy sheath with white piping and matching navy and white pumps.

“Well,” she says, sighing, as she kisses Hannah on both cheeks. “Time to go up to town and make Priti Patel cry. I haven’t done that for a while. It’ll be fun. See you tonight, my loves.” She smiles at the guys and heads off to the Audi. As the remaining three hear the crunch of tires on the gravel drive, Hannah turns to Steve and Bucky with a grin.

“Well, Ms. De Quincey has spoken,” she says, finishing her tea. “Let’s finish breakfast and go get you two packed for your day trip.”

*****

A few hours later, Steve and Bucky are following Theresa’s orders and sitting at the Ship Inn in Lyme Regis. It turns out Theresa helped the owner deal with some local regulatory issue a while back, so at the mention of her name, he happily brings out two Palmers Dorset Golds on the house.

“Well, cheers,” says Bucky, lifting his glass and smiling at Steve. He’s decided to compartmentalize everything and so now things with Steve are fine. _Just_ fine. _So_ fine.

“Cheers,” Steve says back, clinking his glass against Bucky’s with a small smile.

Actually, things are not that bad. Surprisingly. Even after the difficult revelations of last night, Steve is still fun to hang out with, and they’re having a pretty nice time. They’ve walked around town visiting various places mentioned in _Persuasion_ \- Steve has just finished the Lyme part of the book and is starting on the part where Anne is in Bath with her father and sister, so he’s clued in. They’re saving the jetty for after lunch.

As they sip their beer, they talk about where they’ve been that morning, purposely avoiding any talk of the events of yesterday. Their lunch arrives and they start eating.

“So Stevie,” Bucky says, eyes dancing. “A little bird told me it’s your birthday tomorrow.”

“A little bird??” Steve’s eyebrows raise.

“OK, it was Hannah,” Bucky grins. “But hey, July Fourth! That’s quite a birthday. I’d forgotten the date after high school...if I ever knew it. Nice job, Captain America. Gonna wear red white and blue tomorrow?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Quit it, Buck,” he faux-whines. “God you’re a pain in my ass.” Bucky smiles and keeps eating.

“Whaddya wanna do?” Bucky asks between bites. “July Fourth isn’t quite the same big deal over here as it is at home - will you be upset to miss all the fireworks and barbecues in your honor?”

It’s easy as anything to give Steve shit, and it makes Bucky’s heart ease a little.

“Yeah, it totally sucks, I’m gonna petition Boris Johnson to throw me a parade tomorrow down the Mall to Trafalgar,” Steve answers, deadpan. “But seriously, though,” he goes on, “no need to do anything special, with any luck Hannah will make me a cake or something.”

“Can we decorate it like the American flag, or will Theresa disown us?” Bucky is having fun now with the teasing.

“We’d better stick with the Union Jack,” Steve smiles. “Or she’ll have us disappeared in the dead of night.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “She’s _totally_ a spy, isn’t she? ‘Senior civil servant,’ my ass.” But he says it quietly and looks around as he says it, almost superstitious.

“I don’t know about that,” Steve replies. “But she is formidable, and you don’t want to get on her bad side. Just like...”

“Natasha,” they say together, and then laugh out loud.

They finish their lunch, pay the bill, and head out to the jetty.

*****

The jetty is...impressive. Bucky’s seen it, of course, in the 90s _Persuasion_ movie and in the course of his own research, but there’s something special about standing on it and walking around the huge stones that jut out into the Cobb. He doesn’t stand too close to the edge, though - heights are not really any more his thing than flying, thank you very much.

Bucky feels a little better, a little reassured by his lunch with Steve. He’s tired and preoccupied, and there’s still a tiny ache in his chest, but he can do this. He can be friends with this person, he can hang around with this person and joke with him, and he can keep his heart in check. _It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine_ , he tells himself, almost as a mantra.

He walks out a little on the jetty where it extends into the water. Unprompted, he starts thinking about his journal article and the whole concept of “second chances.” Bucky supposes that his reacquaintance with Steve could be called a “second chance” of a sort...only it wouldn’t be the kind that Anne Elliott and Captain Wentworth have in _Persuasion_. Or like what Fanny Price has with either Henry Crawford or Edmund Bertram.

He immediately dismisses from his mind the idea that Steve could be anything like Henry Crawford - he’s too good, too full of integrity. That integrity is why they’re in their present predicament. Bucky doesn’t resent that character trait - he’s well aware that it’s what makes Steve _Steve_. But he’s tired and preoccupied, and there’s still that tiny ache in his chest, and...

Bucky stares moodily out to sea for some minutes, feeling resentful and heartsick and like a brooding hero in some gothic 1840s novel. (He loves _Jane_ _Eyre_ , OK? Loves it. That doesn’t mean he likes feeling like Mr. Rochester.) He runs his fingers through his hair and lets his mind run through points for his article. _That could be an interesting point...note to self, look that up in the later letters...what about that comment of Captain Benwick’s...check chapter 14 in Mansfield when..._

After a while, Bucky comes back to himself and realizes that Steve is no longer walking with him or standing beside him. When did that happen? He looks around - Steve’s not in front of him - he turns back from whence he came.

Steve is planted about twenty feet back, looking directly at him and sketching furiously. He looks fully absorbed and laser-focused on his task. He’s frowning and his eyes are dark, dark with...anger? Passion? Indigestion from those roast beef and horseradish sandwiches at lunch?

Bucky’s heart turns over in his chest just to see Steve standing there. He’s so beautiful, the way his full lips purse and his jawline stands out sculpted in the summer sunshine and his brow furrows and his soft hair ruffles gently in the sea wind...

...but Bucky needs to nip this kind of thinking in the bud. He agreed, last night, to focus on being friends with Steve, and friends don’t think about biting slowly down the ridge of muscle from the back of their friend’s ear to his collarbone. They just don’t.

Quick as a wink, Bucky plasters a game smile on his face and calls out, “Hey, slowpoke, you fell behind! Whatcha doin just standin there like a dope?” If he just ladles shit out to Steve on the regular, he can make it through this. Probably.

Steve jolts his head up from his sketchbook, surprised, his intense expression unchanged. For a brief moment he, too, looks like the brooding hero of an 1840s gothic novel, but then he smiles, rueful, lopsided. He stashes his sketchbook in his bag and comes jogging up the jetty.

“Uh huh, that’s me, the slowpoke,” Steve says, still smiling. “Says the guy who can barely keep up with me on our runs back at home.”

“Yeah, well, now it’s not you keeping up,” Bucky rejoins. “Got overwhelmed by all the beauty and had to get it down, huh?” He waves his arm expansively at all the stupidly gorgeous scenery.

Steve stares at Bucky with that hungry, intense look and he murmurs, “Yeah. All the beauty.” A small but significant spark runs up Bucky’s spine, which he immediately tries to tamp down. But then Steve shakes himself a bit and resumes his little shit smile.

“C’mon, Buck,” he says. “We gotta go down the steps. It’s required, right? Can’t come all the way here not to walk down the steps.”

They walk back down the jetty to where the rough stone steps descend to the beach. Bucky peers over the edge and finds he’s not much of a fan. It’s not even that it’s that far down - maybe ten or twelve feet at the most - but the steps are steep and the tide is high and...and... and...Bucky just doesn’t like heights, OK?

Steve stands at the top of the steps for an instant and then takes confident strides down three of them. When he gets to the fourth step, in one graceful motion he leans over, puts his hand on the step, and vaults off to the sand below. Bucky gulps, both in admiration and in anxiety.

Steve turns back around from his feat of athletic prowess and looks up at Bucky.

“Come on, Barnes!” he calls up. “You can do this.”

“OK,” says Bucky with trepidation. “But I’m going to walk down the normal people way, you know, using the steps for their original purpose. To transport you down onto the sand. So you don’t have to jump.” He’s babbling with nerves.

He starts hesitantly down the steps, his right hand pressed against the inner wall for balance and support. Good thing no one else is trying to get up or down the steps at the moment. Bucky makes it down four or five steps when he hears Steve from below.

“Hey Buck,” Steve says. “I bet you could jump down from there.” Bucky’s eyes widen with alarm and he turns to look at Steve, who must be mocking him at this point. Which is hardly fair, to be honest.

But Steve’s face merely looks excited and warm, with no indication of teasing at all.

“Seriously,” Steve says, smiling. “I know you can do it...you can be just like Louisa Musgrove.”

“We all know what happened to Louisa Musgrove,” says Bucky drily.

“Yeah, but she was an idiot and didn’t wait for Captain Wentworth that second time,” Steve answers reasonably ( _damn him_ ). He looks up at Bucky with a happy, tender expression.

“I’ll catch you, Buck, I promise,” he says, sincerity radiating from every pore. “Do you trust me?”

And the crazy thing is, Bucky does trust him. Even with all the drama and heartache on this trip so far, Bucky still knows one thing, and that is that Steve Rogers always has his back and will be there for him, no matter what. It’s kind of comforting to realize this amidst all the emotional turmoil.

Steve reaches his arms up. His hands reach to Bucky’s feet on the step. That’s not that far. He can do this, he can _do_ this.

Bucky takes a deep breath and stands at the edge of the step. Then he propels himself off the step toward Steve. It’s nowhere near as graceful as what Steve did, but it doesn’t matter. For a brief moment he feels like he’s floating, and next thing he knows he’s in Steve’s arms, Steve helping him land softly on his feet on the sand.

Bucky closes his eyes for an instant in triumph. He realizes this whole thing was silly and looks like six different kinds of cliché, but he doesn’t care. Then he looks up at Steve, grinning, feeling warm and safe in his embrace. Steve’s eyes darken under his deadly eyelashes, but then he smiles like a goof.

“You did it, Buck!” Steve yells, hugging Bucky to him and then letting go and whooping around the sand like a prize idiot. “You did it!”

“Ah, c’mon, Stevie,” Bucky calls back, but inside he’s pretty lit up. He did it! He conquered his fear and jumped! And he didn’t pull a Louisa Musgrove, either! _In your face, Captain Wentworth, Steve’s a much better catcher than you,_ Bucky thinks, random and goofy in his euphoria.

Steve turns back to Bucky, face shining. Suddenly Bucky, still buzzing with adrenaline, wants to do it again.

“I’m gonna jump again, OK, Stevie?” he says, and Steve grins.

“Sure,” Steve says, and positions himself under that seventh step again.

Bucky pivots and starts to run up the steps, even though the steeper rise is awkward to take at a faster pace. He’s so focused on getting back up to that seventh step that he doesn’t notice the third step has worn unevenly, leaving a little ledge in the middle of the stone.

Bucky’s shoe catches on that lip and before he can do anything to balance himself, he crashes forward and sideways into the stone of the jetty wall, hitting his left shoulder and then his head hard. For an instant he feels a sharp pain in his arm, sees stars, hears Steve shout, “Bucky!”

And then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I know, you guys!! It will all get better soon, I promise. Think of this as that point about 2/3 of the way through the Austen novel when everything’s a mess and you don’t know how the hell she can work all this out. 
> 
> I have not been to Lyme Regis, so apologies for any mistakes or mischaracterizations!


	7. Convalescence and Contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The other thing you need to do,” the nurse goes on. “Is to really rest for the next week or so. No strenuous physical activity. No strenuous mental activity - lie around and watch bad TV. Don’t read a lot or use your laptop or do anything that involves eye strain.” 
> 
> “But Ms. Ridgeley,” Bucky pipes up, albeit weakly, reading her name on her ID badge. “I’m a professor, I’ve got all this research to do for a journal article, and there’s an old manuscript I’m studying...”
> 
> “If you want to get better faster, you’ll take my advice,” the nurse cuts in. She looks at Steve, eyes twinkling. “Get your partner to do your research and read your manuscript for you, I’m sure he’d be happy to.”
> 
> “But he’s...” Bucky starts to say, when Steve joins in the interruption fest. 
> 
> “I would be happy to take care of all that, Ms. Ridgeley,” Steve says in a low rumbly voice that makes Bucky shiver internally. “I’ll make sure he follows your orders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED AND REPOSTED: so I got some really good feedback on the UK hospital system and made some changes to the first quarter or so of this chapter. Apparently I’m an expert on US ambulances and ERs but things are a bit different across the Atlantic! Thanks to the Brits who sent me the info, you are the best! The general direction of the chapter as it pertains to our favorite idiots has not changed though.

When Bucky comes to, he’s sitting on the bottom step, the jetty looming over him. He feels dizzy and a little sick and his shoulder hurts abominably. For an instant he panics and calls out “Steve!” inside his head, but he must say it out loud because instantly he feels Steve’s arm squeeze his shoulders.

Bucky turns to look at Steve, who is sitting next to him on the step and talking to someone on his phone. Steve’s face is white and his eyes are wild and he’s clearly keeping himself on a tight rein so he doesn’t freak out.

“OK,” Steve says with some reluctance. “I’ll bring him in. Yes. Thank you.” He turns and smiles as Bucky. Bucky tries to smile back but his head hurts.

“Steve...what...” Bucky starts to say, but Steve squeezes his hand and shushes him.

“It’s OK, Buck, sshhh, it’s gonna be OK, just take it easy,” Steve says. “You tripped walking back up the steps, and you hit your head on the wall. Do you remember?”

Bucky pauses, then nods and winces when the sudden movement hurts his head. He’s quiet for a minute, then he says with horror, “Oh God, Steve, I was Louisa Musgrove. I _am_ Louisa Musgrove. This is the most horrifying thing _ever_ and I will never live it down.”

He realizes he’s being a drama queen, but he’s not sure he’s ever been so embarrassed in his entire life. This is even worse than when Johnny Szymanski pantsed him on the playground in fourth grade.

“You were only out for a few minutes,” Steve says, swallowing hard. He’s still pale and tiny beads of sweat stand out on his forehead and around his temples. “I picked you up and called 999, but they say it’s faster right now for me to drive you to the hospital.”

He gently brushes hair off Bucky’s forehead with his free hand. “The good news is that you didn’t split your head open so blood isn’t gushing everywhere.”

Bucky groans. “You know it’s bad when that’s the good news,” he whines.

“Can you make it to the car?” Steve says, looking anxiously at the side of Bucky’s head. “I mean, I could carry you, but...”

“Oh god, no,” Bucky says reflexively in horror. There are people around and the idea of being carried - _just like Louisa Musgrove_ \- is more than he can bear. He carefully stands up. His head hurts but the dizziness is a little less pronounced. They walk slowly down the beach toward the town, stopping whenever Bucky needs a rest.

Once they reach the Mini, Steve gently tucks him into the passenger seat. He’s clearly worried but he’s trying to radiate calm to keep Bucky from panicking.

As they drive down the road, Bucky feels numb, except for the dull throb in his head. But as they pull into the hospital, he closes his eyes, overwhelmed. He feels panicky in the midst of a scary, intense situation and feels himself start to distance from what’s happening, almost as if he’s witnessing it from somewhere a few feet above his body. As his panic increases, so does this decoupling sensation and his breath catches in his throat as he feels he might float away out of reach.

The car comes to a full stop and Steve grabs Bucky’s hand. The warm calloused strength of his fingers anchors Bucky back to reality. Steve is here, right now, with him. No matter what kind of relationship they have, Steve is here, and they’re connected. Bucky can’t look directly at Steve right now - that’s Too Much - but he squeezes back and exhales as he closes his eyes.

*****

Inside the hospital they check in and get directed to a waiting room, where Steve makes Bucky as comfortable as possible. After a bit a nurse comes out, checks Bucky’s vital signs, and asks him some questions. Bucky answers as best he can, and Steve gently but firmly fills in when Bucky hesitates.

They are then sent to a second room, and after a long wait a different nurse approaches them. She is brisk but positive with a twinkle in her eyes.

“The jetty steps, eh?” she says as she pulls out an opthamalscope. “Those steps are a bloody menace. We get visits from there all the time, for head trauma, turned ankles, broken arms, broken legs, once even a broken tailbone. So it’s not just you,” She says, grinning.

She holds the light up to Bucky’s eyes. “Follow this light with just your eyes, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky does so, but winces again as it hurts his head.

“Well, that’s encouraging,” the nurse says. “Your eyes can focus and you remember what happened to you. Do you have any ringing in your ears?”

Bucky is about to shake his head and then remembers that’s not a good idea.

“No,” he says.

“Another good sign,” says the nurse. She does a few more tests and says she’ll be back in a bit, after she speaks with the doctor.

It’s a long time before she returns, and by this time Bucky is slumped hard against Steve’s shoulder, feeling worn and small and low. Steve continues to hold Bucky’s hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.

“Well, good news, Mr. Barnes,” the nurse says as Bucky struggles to sit up. “The doctor doesn’t think you have a concussion. But,” she continues, “you did take a big knock on the head and you shouldn’t take that lightly. Here is your discharge form with some pain pills. You need to take them four times a day for the next few days, even if you don’t have a headache. No alcohol while you’re taking these.”

She hands Bucky a form with instructions, and a small bottle that says “Paracetamol” on it.

“The other thing you need to do,” the nurse goes on. “Is to really rest for the next week or so. No strenuous physical activity. No strenuous _mental_ activity - lie around and watch bad TV. Don’t read a lot or use your laptop or do anything that involves eye strain.”

“But Ms. Ridgeley,” Bucky pipes up, albeit weakly, reading her name on her ID badge. “I’m a professor, I’ve got all this research to do for a journal article, and there’s an old manuscript I’m studying...”

“If you want to get better faster, you’ll take my advice,” the nurse cuts in. She looks at Steve, eyes twinkling. “Get your partner to do your research and read your manuscript for you, I’m sure he’d be happy to.”

“But he’s...” Bucky starts to say, when Steve joins in the interruption fest.

“I would be happy to take care of all that, Ms. Ridgeley,” Steve says in a low rumbly voice that makes Bucky shiver internally. “I’ll make sure he follows your orders.”

Steve and the nurse grin at each other and Bucky sees he’s been outnumbered and outflanked. “OK,” he sighs ungraciously. “Thank you, Ms. Ridgeley.”

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Ridgeley,” Steve repeats in a much firmer and warmer voice and helps Bucky up as she walks away. He leads Bucky carefully out of the waiting room and then out the main exit. The late afternoon sun is shining through the clouds and Theresa is waiting for them in the Audi.

“But wait,” says Bucky, looking around, confused, tightly clutching his bottle of pain pills. “Where’s...”

“Hannah is driving the Mini home,” Steve explains, opening the back door and sliding Bucky into his seat and seatbelt. “We thought you’d be more comfortable in a bigger car.” Steve slips around the back and into the back seat next to Bucky.

“Yes, darling,” says Theresa from the driver’s seat. “Just relax and get comfortable. I’ll get us home soon. And with a much smoother ride.”

“What happened with Priti Patel?” Bucky says quietly, catching sight of her kickass work outfit from the morning and remembering her comments at breakfast.

“Oh, that.” Theresa is dismissive. “Her eyes get all red and her nose swells up when she cries. Most unattractive.”

Bucky grins but then winces as pain stabs through his head. Theresa notices, of course.

“Enough of tiresome politicians,” she says, pulling away from the curb. “Lie down, James, and rest. We’ll be home soon.”

Steve reaches over to gently pull Bucky down so his head rests on Steve’s lap, and Bucky realizes that this is a conspiracy to take care of him and enforce doctor’s orders. But he also quickly realizes that Steve’s thighs are surprisingly soft and the warmth of his legs feels comforting against Bucky’s cheek.

“It’s OK, Buck,” Steve rumbles, running his left hand down Bucky’s forearm to lace his fingers through Bucky’s. “It’s gonna be OK.” Bucky feels Steve’s other hand carding gently through his hair and though maybe this isn’t something that people do when they’re just friends, it’s exactly what he needs right now and he leans into the touch. Within minutes he’s asleep.

*****

Back at the house, as at the hospital, Steve takes over. Hannah and Theresa are visible in the background, but it’s Steve who helps Bucky into the guesthouse, lays him down on the couch, makes him take his meds, and brings him some food.

“But...cocktails...Theresa,” Bucky says faintly, looking at his watch. “It’s past six o’clock...”

“We’re excused from cocktails tonight,” Steve says, grinning. “Special dispensation given your delicate and injured state.”

“Oh god, I’m not _that_ injured,” says Bucky with an impatient exhale. But even as he does so he gets a shooting pain in his head.

_Traitor_ , he says savagely to his own body, as Steve carts over a tray full of hors d’oeuvres and two glasses, Prosecco for Steve and water for Bucky. Bucky sighs and feels sorry for himself.

But it’s not that much of a hardship to have Steve feed him yummy canapés and tuck him up on the couch and sit next to him while they watch old episodes of _QI_ on BBC2. And he hardly protests at all when Steve insists on standing outside the bathroom while he brushes his teeth and walks him into the bedroom.

“You’re getting the bed from now on, Buck,” Steve says authoritatively and with finality, preempting any fight Bucky would try to pick with him about their sleeping arrangement.

And if Bucky’s honest, it’s rather lovely having Steve tuck him up in the big soft bed and smooth out his hair as he says goodnight. Whatever their relationship is or isn’t, it’s deeply comforting that Steve is here with him and taking care of him right now.

Lying in bed that night, his body feeling battered and tired from the day’s adventure, Bucky feels like he can take a step back and look at his feelings for Steve objectively. They’re still there, he knows, but he needs to put them aside for now and concentrate on taking care of himself.

He thinks about the manuscript box and all the emotions he put there last night. They need to stay there for now, he resolves, for his own good. But there’s a dull ache in his heart that echoes the one in his head. He sighs and drifts off to sleep.

For the next several days, Steve is almost the only person Bucky sees. Hannah and Theresa are around, but mostly in the background, bringing over food, setting up lounge chairs on the patio, making trips to town for supplies. It’s Steve who puts the ice packs on Bucky’s head and shoulder when he’s hurting, Steve who keeps Bucky on a strict schedule for his paracetamols, Steve who brings him glasses of ice water and snacks.

The day after the accident, Bucky remembers it’s Steve’s birthday. He wishes Steve a happy birthday and regrets that he hasn’t had the chance to get Steve anything yet. Steve smiles and tells him that it’s enough of a present that Bucky is OK, at which Bucky rolls his eyes and resolves to get him something as soon as he’s better.

That night Hannah and Theresa roll out a big chocolatey birthday cake to the guesthouse and everyone sings “Happy Birthday” to Steve, but the women disappear soon after that, leaving Steve and Bucky alone together with an entire gateau. They make an effort but fail to finish it all that night.

Steve is being the perfect caretaker, only it seems like he’s the perfect caretaker who’s also the perfect partner. Not only does he minister to Bucky’s physical injuries, he jokes with him, he talks with him, he stays quiet with him when Bucky just needs to company but not the chatter. He’s steadfastly affectionate and, at times, almost possessive in how he treats Bucky.

As Bucky starts to feel better and his head starts to clear, he wonders at this phenomenon. There’s a part of him that feels a little uncomfortable being so spoiled and pampered, but there’s another part of him that absolutely revels in it.

And over the next several days he feels his emotions toward Steve shift: Bucky’s still _absolutely_ _gone_ for this man, his heart still aches with it, but he’s put those feelings in that box and they can stay there for now. There’s something else that’s taken seed, a connection that filters down into the very heart of him, as sure as sunrise, or the coming of spring.

Bucky’s not really sure what to call this connection, unless it’s a deep friendship. He’s never had this kind of relationship before with anyone, not even his family, not even Natasha. Bucky’s resolutely kept his romantic feelings tucked away in that box, but these other feelings grow and blossom, and Bucky experiences them with wonder. He feels his heart start to knit around his previous hurt and disappointment and grow in a new direction.

Maybe they won’t ever get together. Maybe it doesn’t matter whether they ever actually get together. Whatever else happens between them, they are bound together by this experience and by their growing mutual understanding and affection.

And if these thoughts are occasionally interrupted by a little voice in the back of Bucky’s head that sounds strongly like Marianne Dashwood, saying, _Understanding? Affection? Maybe it doesn’t matter? Are you fucking serious, Barnes...,_ Bucky immediately shouts it down and focuses on what he’s got right now.

Steve, too, seems to change over the days. He says nothing about their relationship, but everything he does underlines his care for Bucky. His tenderness and sweetness can be overwhelming, but he also laughs and jokes with Bucky, teases him when he’s feeling sorry for himself, makes sure to give him his daily rasher of crap.

At times Bucky will catch Steve looking at him intently, like he wants to say something, to start some conversation, but when he’s caught staring, Steve just shuts up and crooks his mouth up in a smile. And Bucky can only smile back and wonder if he’s making things up.

Occasionally Bucky will come out of a doze on the couch or the lounge chair and see Steve sketching madly next to him. But even now Steve refuses to let Bucky see any of his studies.

A couple of days after Steve’s birthday, Bucky is feeling better and whines about not getting to do his article research or look at the manuscript. Steve says no (“doctor’s orders, Buck”) but he does unearth an ancient Barbara Cartland paperback, left in their quarters by a long-ago guest, and starts to read it out loud to Bucky.

Within hours they are both sucked in to _Hazard of Hearts_ , breathlessly awaiting the latest adventures of Serena Staverley and the husband forced upon her, the dark and brooding Lord Vulcan. It’s cheesy as all hell but they eat it up, and discuss the plot points sitting on the patio and in front of _Catchword_ after dinner.

As they get deeper into the romance novel, Bucky starts to feel less and less like Louisa Musgrove as a recovering invalid and more and more like Catherine Morland reading _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ with Isabella Thorpe. Only Steve is no false friend like Isabella, thank goodness. But is he a true... _friend_? Or...something else? Bucky shuts these thoughts down as soon as they take root in his mind, but they still appear at regular frequencies.

By the end of the week after the accident, they finish the book, sitting on the couch in the guesthouse after dinner, and sigh with satisfaction at the hard-earned happy ending.

“I can’t believe Lord Justin came through,” Steve sighs.

“I can’t believe Lady Harriet, holy shit, what a terrible bitch,” Bucky says with more spirit. “Thank goodness your family isn’t like that, or there’d be problems.” Steve is sitting right up close to Bucky and as Steve puts the book down, Bucky can feel the warmth of his thigh against his.

“No shit,” says Steve and shoulder checks Bucky as he chuckles. “I mean, Theresa is terrifying, but she’d do anything in the world for those she loves.”

“...none of whom include senior Tory MPs,” Bucky finishes, standing up and looking around superstitiously. He honestly wouldn’t put it past Theresa to bug this place, although maybe that’s just him being paranoid after having spent too much time with Natasha over the past 15 years.

“Nope,” says Steve, grinning. “Can you blame her? They’re all giant fuckwads.”

“ _Language_ , Mr. Rogers,” Bucky grins back and ambles his way over to the kitchen. “Is there any dessert? I know we finished the birthday cake a few days ago, but maybe there’s still some ice cream?” He leans over and peers into the fridge.

Steve gets up and pads over to the kitchen. “I...uh...I ate up all the ice cream earlier today,” he says, looking at Bucky with a guilty expression.

Bucky narrows his eyes at him, then smiles evilly.

“Well, I guess I’ll forgive you,” he says. “If you let me look at the manuscript tomorrow morning.”

Steve sighs the overburdened sigh of the responsible caretaker. “I think you’ve recovered,” he says, his voice suffering and resigned. But he’s smiling and his eyes are twinkling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea whether the steps on the Lyme Regis jetty actually cause that much injury in real life, but I love the idea that they are a complete menace...the legacy of Louisa Musgrove!
> 
> I wish I could tell you that I just made up the feelings about going to the hospital, but having just dealt with *two* ambulance rides myself (and two ERs), it is alas based on personal experience. Sigh.
> 
> Thanks for all your comments and kudos, they are a huge boost. xoxo


	8. Research and Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At cocktail hour Bucky feels the need to share the breakthrough he’s made. After 20 or 30 minutes he realizes that he’s been blathering on for a while and pulls himself up short, looking at their smiling faces.
> 
> “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he says, picking up his G&T. “I totally didn’t mean to bore you with all this. I mean, this is exciting to me, but you all don’t have to listen to it.” He takes a big slug of his cocktail.
> 
> “Are you kidding, Buck, we’re excited for you,” Steve says, grinning and grabbing a piece of smoked salmon toast. His eyes are shining and his face is pink. “That second chance thing is really interesting. And I know what it’s like to have a breakthrough when I’ve been stuck on a painting for a while...”
> 
> “...and I know what’s it like to find that missing piece of information that helps me with art authentication and provenance,” Hannah cuts in. “It’s exhilarating.” 
> 
> “And it’s always exciting to bully an MP into killing a terrible piece of legislation,” Theresa adds, sipping her dry martini with an enigmatic smile on her face.

The next morning Bucky and Steve resume their regular routine at the house in Fleet. While Bucky was recovering all the usual social conventions had been set aside, but now that he’s better it’s been made clear that their presence is once again expected at breakfast with Hannah and Theresa. It’s a beautiful day, not too hot, with a light breeze dancing over the fields that slope downward toward the intense blue of the channel.

And Bucky is happy to wake up feeling good, happy to shower and put on real clothes and show up to breakfast by 9. He pulls on a raspberry-colored short-sleeve button-up, grey slim cut cropped pants and dark blue slip-on driving moccasins, determined to look good for his first real appearance in a week. He keeps the top two buttons of the shirt open to show off a little more of the light tan he’s gotten over the past week from lying around in lounge chairs on the patio.

When Bucky shows up at the outdoor breakfast table, Steve is just arriving himself. When Steve sees Bucky, his eyes widen a little as he looks him up and down and he opens his mouth as if to say something, but he’s forestalled by Theresa.

“Good morning, James, you look very well this morning,” she says, coming out of the main house with Hannah behind her. She’s wearing a dark grey pantsuit with a stark white blouse and her black Louboutin stilettos.

“Good morning, Theresa, thank you, you look very well today too,” Bucky says, looking at her warmly. He can still feel Steve’s eyes on him. He hesitates for a moment, and then decides he can tease. A little. “Making anyone cry today?”

Theresa’s mouth quirks up in a tiny smile. _Score_ , thinks Bucky.

“Not on the agenda today,” she says. “But,” she says, pointedly looking at him, “Dominic Raab’s gotten a swelled head lately and needs a little...humility.”

“Excellent,” Bucky says with a grin as they all sit down. He’s about to pick up his coffee cup when he looks around the table and clears his throat. Everyone looks at him expectantly.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he says. “For all the care and hospitality you’ve shown me during this trip, especially the last week while I was hurt.” Bucky looks at Steve as he says, “It’s meant the world to me,” and then at the two women as he says, “And I look forward to hosting you the next time you come to New York.”

Steve’s eyes darken, Hannah’s are suspiciously shiny, and Theresa looks over Bucky’s shoulder and takes a quiet breath. Then she looks right at him.

“James, that was lovely, thank you,” she says smoothly. “And you are lovely, quite the loveliest partner Steven has ever had.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Steve pull up short and turn pink. They finish their breakfast in silence and a few minutes later, Theresa puts down her napkin and scrapes back her chair.

“Well,” she says, kissing Hannah. “Bye bye, my turtle doves, see you later, don’t work too hard.” The click-click-click of her heels across the patio gives way to the Audi engine starting up and the sound of tires on gravel.

Hannah turns to Bucky, still smiling but with flinty eyes.

“I happen to know that Theresa specifically meant you with that last order,” she says, passing him the last of the croissants. “You’re allowed to work for a couple of hours on your research this morning, then a nice long break for lunch and rest, then a couple of hours looking at that fucking manuscript this afternoon.”

Hannah passes Steve a muffin. “And your designated nursemaid,” she indicates her nephew with a nod of her head, “will be on hand to make sure that you follow orders and don’t exhaust yourself on your first day back to normal. Got it?”

Bucky grins. He ought to be annoyed at all the meddling these people are doing in his life, but instead he finds he’s thankful, thankful for this new family and how much they care about him and have opened their hearts to him after such a short time. He looks at Steve to find him grinning back.

“Got it,” Bucky says. And then he slathers the croissant with homemade raspberry jam and takes a huge bite.

*****

Bucky hasn’t counted on getting much done on his scholarly article this morning, seeing as he’s been away from it for more than a week. And even before his accident he’d been struggling with an analysis problem in the _Mansfield_ part of the article.

But it turns out that absence makes the heart grow fonder and leaving things alone for a while brings new inspiration. By the end of his mandated two-hour limit before lunch, Bucky’s solved the analysis problem and has made good progress toward completing that entire section of the piece.

At lunch, buoyed by his success in the morning, Bucky says he’s going to keep working on the piece for _ELH_ instead of looking at the manuscript today. He wants to keep the creative flow going. Hannah and Steve readily accede to this request, smiling at each other behind Bucky’s back.

Soon after the meal Bucky is ensconced at the guesthouse dining table, clicking through online archives, typing madly on his laptop, and flipping pages in his worn copies of _Mansfield Park_ and _Persuasion_. Across the room Steve sits on the easy chair with his sketchbook, ostensibly watching _Escape to the Country_ on mute but regularly turning his head to look at his roommate.

Bucky works steadily all afternoon and by the time they need to get ready for Theresa to come home, he’s written four more pages and has two pages of copious notes to guide him toward the conclusion. It’s an astounding amount of progress for Bucky, who usually counts himself fortunate if he can eke out half a page at a time with a footnote or two.

At cocktail hour Bucky feels the need to share the breakthrough he’s made, telling Steve and Hannah and Theresa excitedly about his thoughts on _Mansfield_ and _Persuasion_ and the concept of the second chance in literature. After 20 or 30 minutes he realizes that he’s been blathering on for a while and pulls himself up short, looking at their smiling faces.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he says, picking up his G&T. “I totally didn’t mean to bore you with all this. I mean, I know this second chance thing is exciting to _me_ , but you all don’t have to listen to it.” He takes a big slug of his cocktail.

“Are you kidding, Buck, we’re excited for you,” Steve says, grinning and grabbing a piece of smoked salmon toast. His eyes are shining and his face is pink. “That second chance thing is really interesting. And I know what it’s like to have a breakthrough when I’ve been stuck on a painting for a while...”

“...and I know what’s it like to find that missing piece of information that helps me with art authentication and provenance,” Hannah cuts in. “It’s exhilarating.”

“And it’s always exciting to bully an MP into killing a terrible piece of legislation,” Theresa adds, sipping her dry martini with an enigmatic smile on her face. Even after a long day in London she looks immaculate and Bucky feels like he’s seeing Natasha in twenty years.

“Thank you all for the encouragement,” Bucky says, slathering an herb cracker with soft cheese. “It’s been great getting back to work. Not that lying around and being spoiled for the last week wasn’t great, but it’s nice to get my brain going again.”

The next afternoon, Bucky, Steve, and Hannah are sitting around the dining table in the guesthouse, the old manuscript box between them. It’s a grey, humid day that threatens rain, so Hannah and Bucky spent the morning grocery shopping in Weymouth, dropping Steve off at Boots (he said he needed more toothpaste) while they went to Sainsbury’s and Marks & Spencer.

They open the box and put on their thin cotton gloves. It feels good to Bucky to pull these on, to know that soon he’ll be feeling old paper under his fingers, smelling that fascinating musty odor of the past.

But now they’re back at the manuscript. Bucky reads through the letters and the chapters again and passes pages to Steve and Hannah. The letters still strike no chord, but he goes back and reads a couple of paragraphs in the unfinished third chapter that have caught his eye after a week away from them.

“What is it, Buck?” Steve asks, leaning over to look at the words as Bucky rereads them.

“See this part, here?” Bucky holds up the paper for Steve and Hannah to see. “Frances’ family friend Mr. Gillingham accuses this other man, the priest, Mr. Mowbray, of ‘podsnappery.’”

“What does that even mean?” Steve cocks his head, and Hannah looks equally mystified.

“I’ve never heard that word in my life,” she affirms.

Bucky types a bit on his laptop. “It means, ‘a willful determination to ignore the objectionable or the inconvenient, at the same time assuming airs of superior virtue and noble resignation.’”

Hannah snorts. “That sounds exactly like something Jane Austen would say about a pompous vicar,” she chuckles.

Bucky hesitates, biting his lip. “But she never used that word,” he says. “It’s not found anywhere in her works or in her letters.”

“Are you sure?” Steve blurts it out before he can stop himself.

Bucky looks at him wryly. “Pretty sure,” he says.

Steve grins. “Gotcha,” he says.

Bucky does some more typing on his laptop. “Huh,” he says, forehead crinkling as he peers at the screen.

“What is it?” Steve asks. “Everything OK?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “I mean, I guess?” He turns his laptop around to show Steve and Hannah. “The OED indicates first usage of ‘podsnappery’ in _Our_ _Mutual Friend_ in 1864-65. Charles Dickens.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Does that mean this was written by Charles Dickens??” he says, frowning. “Now I’m all confused.”

“No,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “It just strongly suggests that this is not written by Austen, as she would never have used that word - it just didn’t exist in the Regency period.”

“Unless it was added later?” Hannah still sounds a bit hopeful.

“Unlikely,” Bucky comes back, looking back at the paper. “It looks the same as the other writing...unless somehow someone copied this from her original and added that word to this second copy.” He puts down the paper and stands up, pacing around the guesthouse living area. Steve and Hannah watch sympathetically.

“Well...” says Bucky, blowing out his breath upward so his hair lifts off his forehead. “Unless I can think of another explanation,” he says, “It looks like this is a forgery.”

“But still a 19th-century forgery,” Hannah reminds him. “That could be interesting.”

“I guess so, but only if we figure out who did it and why, learn some context,” Bucky rejoins, rolling his stiff neck and shoulders as he paces. As much as he’s focused on the manuscript (and frustrated by it), part of him is still aware that Steve’s eyes are on him as he moves around the room.

“Maybe there’s some clue in the papers, or we could look back in that cupboard in the linen closet...” Hannah suggests. Bucky shakes his head.

“Let’s leave it for now,” he sighs. “Maybe tomorrow will bring some fresh thinking.” He comes back to the table and leans over it, still wearing his cotton gloves, and picks up the papers to put them back in the old wooden box. A pen is hidden between the papers and as he picks them up it falls out into the box, making a strange THUNK as it hits the wood.

“Oh shit,” Bucky says, leafing through the papers to make sure the pen didn’t spatter errant spots of modern ink all over them. He looks over and sees Steve staring at the table, brows knit together. Steve grabs the pen and drops it on the bottom of the box again, and again sounds that hollow THUNK. He looks at Bucky.

“I think this box has a false bottom,” Steve says, knocking carefully on the wood. “It would sound different if this bottom panel sat flush on the table.”

He turns to Hannah. “You remember that small chest of drawers of Mom’s that sat on her desk? That her great-uncle Liam had brought over from Ireland?” Hannah nods. “It had a secret drawer and the bottom of the shelf over it sounded like this.” He smiles. “I loved that secret compartment.”

Bucky puts down the papers and knocks on the wood himself. It does sound hollow. “How would we find out how to open the false bottom? If there is one?”

Steve picks up the box and turns it around, looking at the wood and feeling along the seams for clues. For someone with such huge hands his touch is surprisingly deft and delicate, and Bucky blinks a few times to clear his mind of the sudden unbidden image of feeling those hands on him.

“Ah,” says Steve, his fingers probing along the bottom corners at the back of the box. After a minute there’s a _click_ and a slim drawer pops out in front. He carefully pulls the drawer open.

Inside are a few sheets of paper that look very similar to the letters and manuscript. Steve lifts them out and hands them to Bucky, who starts reading to himself for a minute.

“Aloud, Bucky?” Hannah says gently from the other side of the table. He starts and looks up.

“Of course, sorry,” he says.

_“4 August 1879,”_ he starts, and looks up at the others, eyebrows up. Steve looks encouraging.

_“4 August 1879,”_ Bucky repeats, and goes on.

_At Redland’s summer cottage as a guest to get some fresh air. Dodgson is here too and we have enjoyed rambles over the fields and on the beach, and needling Redland about his latest dabblings into the occult. Although R is in general a good sort and a very gracious host. We also read to each other from our latest works - D enjoyed The Egoist, thought it v entertaining._

_Two weeks ago we made an excursion over to Lyme Regis, as neither D nor I had ever visited. Enjoyed it immensely and naturally began talking of Jane Austen. That night over drinks with R and D after Lady R had retired, I declared that Miss A was a good writer but very easy to parody. The next day D challenged me to write some letters and chapters in the J.A. style and see if we could not fool R into thinking he’d got a literary find at his summer home. I saw the prospect for a good joke and immediately began work on “Mottisfont Hall,” a J.A. title if ever there was one._

_But now I find I have been called home to Surrey two weeks earlier than anticipated to assist in addressing an emergency business matter in Marie’s family. So I leave this unfinished manuscript and sham J.A. letters (it look a bit of practice but I fancy my forgery of her signature is believable) as a secret surprise for Redland in his gardener’s cottage, if he ever finds it. It has been a highly interesting exercise and an enjoyable pastime._

_George Meredith_

_Redland Cottage, Fleet, Weymouth, Dorset_

There’s silence for a moment as Bucky finishes reading the second sheet. He looks up, eyes blinking, head spinning a little.

Steve looks confused. “George Meredith?” he says.

“He was a Victorian novelist and poet,” Bucky answers. “Never as famous as his contemporaries like Thomas Hardy or Conan Doyle. Or Charles Dodgson,” he says, pointing to the name on the letter. “Better known as Lewis Carroll. _Alice in Wonderland_ and all that.” Steve’s eyes widen.

“And ‘Redland’?” Hannah asks, peeking over Bucky’s shoulder at the letter. Bucky shrugs, puts the paper down, and leans over to tap on his laptop.

“‘Lord Redland, born James Arthur Hardcastle,’” Bucky reads on Wikipedia. His eyes scan the text. “Looks like he was a publishing magnate at the time. Awarded a title by Queen Victoria in 1872.”

All three of them are quiet for a minute. Steve’s eyes are still wide.

“Bucky,” he says. “I know this is a forgery, but it’s still an amazing discovery. How often do you come across documents like this that have been hidden for 150 years? You totally need to write an article or give a paper on this.”

Bucky shakes his head. The wheels in his brain are turning furiously. “But...but...this is the Victorian era. Meredith, Dodgson...I hardly know this period at all. It’s fifty years or more after my focus of research.” 

“But Austen is your focus,” Hannah points out. “And Meredith was trying to write a credible facsimile of Austen, right?” Bucky nods hesitantly.

“So this could be a whole new area of research for you,” Hannah goes on. “And these papers are a true literary discovery, even if they are a forgery.”

“That’s true,” sighs Bucky. He’s trying to get his head around all this, but it all just seems overwhelming.

Hannah looks at her watch. “Hors d’oeuvres time,” she says briskly and strips off her cotton gloves. She pats Bucky on the arm and smiles at Bucky encouragingly. “You’ll figure this out, Bucky, really.” Then she looks pointedly at both of them. “See you two in a few minutes? I need basil cutters and lime squeezers.”

“Yeah, of course, be right there,” Steve says to Hannah’s retreating back. Bucky doesn’t respond, brow furrowed, still lost in thought.

“Buck?” Steve says gently, taking off his own gloves. He comes up next to Bucky and puts his hand lightly on Bucky’s shoulder. “You OK?”

Bucky looks at Steve. Steve is looking affectionately at Bucky but his eyes look a little worried. He nods his head and places his hand over Steve’s.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, Steve,” Bucky says, giving Steve’s hand a little squeeze. “Just lost in my own thoughts. It’s a lot to take in. I’ll get over myself and focus on the real priority right now, which is hors d’oeuvres.”

As Bucky touches Steve’s hand, Steve’s face goes serious and his gaze turns intense and he opens his mouth to say something. Bucky’s heart skitters a bit at Steve’s expression but he immediately tries to stuff that sensation back into the inappropriate feelings box where it belongs.

But after a moment Steve obviously changes his mind, closes his mouth, and smiles, his hand tightening on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Fuck yeah, hors d’oeuvres!” Steve says with enthusiasm.

And then he frees his hand and goes on. “Sorry about the manuscript, Buck. I’m glad you solved the mystery, but it’s hard to know what to do about it. I’m happy to talk about it with you any time, though. I don’t know much of anything about 19th-century literature but I’m good at listening.” His deep blue eyes go bright as he says this.

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat and the thought pops into his head, unbidden, _I don’t want to talk about it, Stevie, I just want you to kiss me_ _breathless_. For one wild second he thinks of saying it out loud but he gets hold of himself and smiles back at Steve.

“Thanks, Stevie,” he says, not failing to notice that Steve’s eyes darken again at the pet name. “I appreciate it so much. And you really solved the mystery with that fuckin crazy secret drawer; that is some first-rate detective work right there. And Steve...” Steve is turning away when Bucky says this, and turns back to face him.

“Thanks for taking care of me after the accident,” Bucky says softly. “I really appreciate it. You’re such a good friend.” He takes off his gloves and lays them on the table.

For the second time in three minutes, Steve’s manner goes serious and opens his mouth to say something. And again, he changes his mind and smiles.

“It was my pleasure, Buck,” he says, eyes soft. “Always my pleasure.” Then he shakes himself a bit and says, “Let’s go help Hannah before Theresa gets home and flays us all alive.”

Bucky’s eyes widen a bit and he says, “Roger that.” They grin and clap each other on the back a bit like good bros before they head for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story about George Meredith is entirely made up for this fic - while he did know Charles Dodgson in real life, there is nothing anywhere to suggest he was interested in Jane Austen at all and no recorded trip to Dorset in his bio. And Lord Redland is a figment of my imagination. 
> 
> I know very little about 19th-century literary research and even less about handling old documents, so please excuse any errors here.
> 
> As always, I love to get your comments! 💚


	9. Admission and Adoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you, Steve,” Bucky says, still loud. “I think you know how much I love you. I’ve been _completely gone_ for you since you moved in with me in Brooklyn. But fuck, Steve, I’m not someone to flirt with when it’s convenient for you. I’m not a fucking consolation prize. I’m not a rebound. I’m not going to sit around and happily play third wheel to the ghost of Peggy Fucking Carter. I deserve better. So much better. And you just said it yourself.”
> 
> Steve’s eyes get even wider, but still he says nothing. _Fucking hell_ , Bucky thinks wildly to himself. _I threw the Peggy card. Bridge crossed. And burned. Here we go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little longer than usual, but I hope you’ll indulge me as it is one in which All the Things Happen. 
> 
> This is also the chapter that earns this fic its E rating - “smut ahoy” as one of my favorite writers here says :-)

Later that night Bucky gets out of the shower in the guesthouse and towels himself off. He usually only showers in the morning but it’s humid tonight and he was feeling clammy after dinner. And he felt like he needed a little space to process the events of the day. So he slipped off the patio when Steve was in the main house getting Theresa another drink to come back and get some downtime.

The wheels in his head are still spinning over the revelation of the manuscript and its ties to the Victorian literary scene. He knows something about this period - he has to teach books from it to undergrads, after all - but it’s not his area of expertise and the idea of trying to say anything authoritative about it in an article or conference paper makes his blood run cold.

At cocktails the group had been buzzing about the discovery. Steve and Hannah had excitedly encouraged Bucky to write about it, perhaps even for _ELH_ or another top English literary journal. Theresa, back from bringing yet another senior Tory government official down a peg or two, had sipped her martini and suggested Bucky write a bestselling thriller about it.

“You know, James, darling,” she said, eyes dancing. “Like Ken Follett or that chap who wrote _The Da Vinci Code_.”

Bucky had smiled weakly and added yet one more anxiety to the pile. He hasn’t written fiction in a while, just some outlines and character studies, since he’s been so focused on his academic writing. He loves creative writing but wonders if he’s still any good at it.

So now here he is in the bathroom at the guesthouse, quietly trying not to freak out. He slaps on some moisturizer and brushes his teeth. His hair gets curlier in the humidity and he briefly considers throwing some product in it, but then decides that’s dumb when he’s getting in bed soon and he’ll wake up with bedhead tomorrow either way. He runs his fingers through the curls and calls it good.

He goes into the bedroom to grab a fresh t-shirt and pajama bottoms out of his side of the huge bureau, but he’s determined to sleep on the couch tonight. Steve’s insisted on giving Bucky the bed for the last eight days, but Bucky feels completely fine now and this is the fair and equitable decision.

_The couch also won’t feel as huge as the bed does without Steve in it,_ a little voice pipes up from the back of his head. But he tells it to fuck off and closes the drawer. He’s passing the bed and about to head into the living room to wait for Steve when a gentle knock sounds on the bedroom door.

Bucky starts a little but manages to call “Come in!” in a normal and totally casual voice.

The door opens and Steve peeks around the edge.

“Bucky?” he says tentatively, and then sees Bucky in his night clothes. “You OK? You left the party kinda suddenly, I was worried.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, gesturing for Steve to come in. His chest doesn’t clench up at the sight of Steve in all his glory in jeans and a tight t-shirt, it _totally_ doesn’t, and he’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.

“I was feeling a little sweaty and a lot overwhelmed after today, so I thought I’d come back and take a shower before bed.”

“Ah, got it,” says Steve, nodding a little too vigorously. “That makes sense.” He looks off to the side and visibly swallows. Bucky narrows his eyes at him. Is Steve... _nervous_? What’s going on?

Steve takes hold of himself and goes on. “Hey Buck, I just wanted to let you know that I support whatever you decide to do with this manuscript thing. I know it’s a big deal to get thrown a curve ball like this in your research, no matter what Hannah and Theresa might think, and if you want to walk away and focus on your own work, I totally wouldn’t blame you.”

“Actually,” Steve says, running his fingers through his hair (he _is_ nervous!), “I’m feeling kind of bad about getting you involved in this at all. It’s been a lot of effort and difficulty for you and it’s taken you away from your article and...”

“Hey, Steve, it’s OK,” Bucky cuts in. “It’s been an incredible experience, no matter what happens and what I decide to do about it. None of my regular research has ever involved this kind of exciting discovery. I appreciate you thinking of me.”

_God I wish I didn’t sound like such a formal doofus,_ Bucky thinks to himself. But this whole conversation is getting more and more awkward and he’s retreating into politeness. What happened to those deep ties of friendship and comfort that had grown up so strongly and naturally while he was recovering from his accident? Now all he wants to do is run away to the couch and throw a blanket over his head.

“Of course I’d think of you, Buck, I...” Steve pauses for a moment, then he takes a step toward Bucky and says the last thing Bucky is expecting.

“I’ve been thinking about your _ELH_ article,” he says. “And the whole ‘second chance’ thing.” He shifts uncomfortably between his feet. “I finally finished _Persuasion_ last night, and that letter to Anne from Captain Wentworth...”

“Yes,” Bucky says tersely. He can, of course, recite that entire letter from memory and has written extensively about it in his latest article, but he doesn’t understand why Steve is bringing it up now.

“It made me think about you, and how I’ve been so cruel to you, and how selfish I’ve been, and all because of my own fear and doubt and my unwillingness to even think about risking getting hurt again, and all the mixed signals...” Steve is talking faster now.

“Wentworth talks about being weak and resentful and unjust, and that was so hard to read because it’s exactly how I’ve been with you, and you deserve better, you deserve _everything_ , you deserve someone who worships you and reminds you how amazing you are all the time, and I...I want...I want...I...”

As Steve falters in his babbling, Bucky, brain fuzzy, heart racing, takes a step backward toward the bed.

“Steve, what do you mean? What are you saying?” he says, more sharply than he otherwise would, primarily because all those uncomfortable feelings he’s stashed away in that box are now pushing hard on the lid to get out.

“I love you,” Steve bursts out abruptly, as if the words are escaping without his permission. He exhales loudly and says, “Oh god, Bucky, I love you so much.”

“Do you? Do you _really_?” Bucky shoots back, and Steve looks like he’s just been slapped. Bucky doesn’t want to be this ruthless, this direct, this dismissive, but the Pandora feelings box has now popped open, the dam is bursting, insert other hackneyed metaphor here, and he’s tired of keeping them controlled and hidden away.

All the emotions, all the pining, all the heartache he’s struggled with for the last two months, and especially for the last two weeks here in England, come surging forward to light up Bucky’s cells with an almost incandescent energy. He can’t live like this. Better to have this out now and make a clean break and hurt like hell than to live in a liminal world of ambiguous words and stolen glances and mysterious sketchbooks and guesses at meaning and intention that wear him down bit by bit.

He thought he could do it, thought their friendship was enough and he could live with just that. But Bucky’s heart twists in his side and in a flash he sees with startling and awful clarity that it’s not what he wants. That he can’t live with just that. That it will _never_ be enough.

“Steve,” Bucky goes on, his voice louder than intended, and Steve startles. _Good_. “You tell me you love me now, you kiss me breathless at Chesil Beach, but then you turn around and tell me that you’re gunshy, that you’re not over the love of your life, that you just want to be friends. One minute you’re giving me smoldering looks and the next you’re like ‘haha, kidding, let’s just be best bros.’”

Bucky takes a deep breath and wrings his hands together, and then looks back at Steve, who is white-faced, eyes huge, mouth tight, gaze laser-fixed on him.

“I love _you_ , Steve,” Bucky says, still loud. “I think you know how much I love you. I’ve been _completely gone_ for you since you moved in with me in Brooklyn. But fuck, Steve, I’m not someone to flirt with when it’s convenient for you. I’m not a fucking consolation prize. I’m not a rebound. I’m not going to sit around and happily play third wheel to the ghost of Peggy Fucking Carter. I deserve better. So much better. And you just said it yourself.”

Steve’s eyes get even wider, but still he says nothing. _Fucking hell,_ Bucky thinks wildly to himself. _I threw the Peggy card. Bridge crossed. And burned. Here we go._

“I don’t have the best track record with relationships,” Bucky goes on. “Actually, almost all my past relationships have ended badly. But it’s not because I didn’t jump in with both feet, with everything I had. There’s a character in Austen who says, ‘I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.’ That’s me in a fucking nutshell, Steve,” he says, lower lip trembling. “That’s me. And I can’t guarantee that we won’t end in disaster, but I _can_ promise you that I love you with everything I have and I want to be with you.”

“So, Steve,” Bucky says, throat tight, chest aching, “Do you really love me? I mean _really_ love me? Are you willing to put aside all your fears and past hurts and be here right now...” Bucky pokes Steve in the chest. “...with me...” he pokes him again. “...with all your heart? Because if not, I’m _done_. I’m out of here. I’ll pack and head to Heathrow in the morning.”

Bucky’s voice breaks on “morning” and the dam really is breached. He sits heavily on the side of the bed, knees falling open, drops his head in his hands, and cries his heart out.

_Oh shit, it’s over,_ he thinks as his body wracks with sobs. Hopefully tomorrow amidst the wreckage Hannah will be nice enough to call him a car service or point him to the nearest train to the airport. His eyes close and he welcomes the darkness.

*****

After a few minutes, Bucky’s sobs calm down and he comes back to himself. The first thing he notices is that his midsection is warm and there’s a weight in his lap. He pulls his hands from his face to see Steve, kneeling in front of him between his legs, body draped over his thighs and arms clasped around his waist.

“Steve?” Bucky says uncertainly, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch Steve’s back.

Steve unclasps his arms and rocks back on his knees. His face is still white and tear tracks are evident on his cheeks.

“You’re right, Bucky,” he says in a low voice. “You’re right. About everything. All of it. I have strung you along and confused you and given you all kinds of mixed signals. But it’s not because of Peggy...I mean not really.” He exhales loudly.

“I really do love you, Buck,” he says, voice pitched even lower now. “I mean... _so_ much. I was hopelessly smitten when I first saw you again two months ago and I’ve only fallen deeper in love with you every day since.”

“But it freaked the fucking shit out of me,” Steve goes on. “The intensity of that feeling...it scared me so much. It was so much deeper and stronger even than what I’d felt for Peggy...it was like looking over into an abyss. And I was such a chickenshit...” Steve clenches his fist and hits it into the mattress next to Bucky, who flinches a little.

Bucky’s still crying, still hurts all over, but he can’t pull away, can’t stop staring at Steve.

“I _am_ such a chickenshit,” Steve says, mouth pulling down. “Even after I lost control and kissed you at the beach and then ran away, I told myself it was better that way. I told you my old tragic love story and used the roommate excuse to keep you at a distance. I thought it would keep things safer and easier.” He unclenches his hand from the bed and runs it through his hair.

“And then when you fell and got knocked out at the jetty, it all came crashing down around me,” says Steve, his voice strained. “I realized I had the love of my life right here, and I could’ve lost him. I could’ve lost you. And I finally admitted to myself just how much I loved you, just how much I needed you. And I’ve wanted to tell you so for more than a week now, but I felt like it wasn’t fair to spring that on you while you were injured and recovering. So I just did the next best thing and took care of you as best I could, showed you as well as I could how much I loved you without saying anything.”

Steve hesitates, then gently grabs Bucky’s hand in his.

“Bucky, you are the most amazing person I know, and you’re right - you _do_ deserve better than a consolation prize. You do deserve someone who will love you fully, and wholeheartedly, and worship the fucking ground you walk on, and show you every day how wonderful you are. Someone who doesn’t love you by halves.”

With his other hand, Steve reaches up and cradles Bucky’s jaw, tenderly wiping away a stray tear from his cheekbone near the corner of his eye.

“Let me be that person,” Steve says in a near-whisper, his ocean-blue eyes staring deep into Bucky’s. “Please let me be that person for you. I know I’ve fucked up in a big way, but I’ll make it up to you. I’ll do whatever I need to do to prove my love, to show you how much I can love and cherish you. Oh god, I love you so much. Please, Buck. _Please_.”

Bucky stares hard into Steve’s deep blue eyes, those killer eyelashes still damp from emotion. And suddenly he feels like he did that day on the jetty, looking down at Steve’s upraised arms, wondering if he has the courage to jump or just needs to back away and play it safe. He remembers that split-second feeling of flight, of Steve’s arms, warm and strong around him. Of Steve’s love, warm and strong around him.

He takes a deep breath, and jumps.

“Show me, Steve,” he says quietly. “Show me how much you love me. _Now_.”

*****

At this, Steve’s eyes darken and he drops his hand from Bucky’s face. Bucky expects that he’s going to lean forward into a devouring kiss, just like that day at Chesil Beach. But instead Steve leans forward and brushes his lips over Bucky’s in a kiss that is very, very gentle and very, very sweet. Bucky returns the kiss, feeling a small thrill in his stomach at the touch of Steve’s warm, strong lips against his.

Steve kisses him like this for a few minutes, never deepening the kisses, just keeping it light, almost chaste, until Bucky’s head is swimming and he feels like his body is going to melt into the floor. These kisses are _everything_ \- it feels like all of Bucky’s awareness, all his brainpower, all the sensation in his body is concentrated in those few inches where Steve’s lips are steadily drinking in from him. It’s like Steve is trying to communicate to him, through these kisses, the depth of his love and his willingness to risk it all to prove it.

So when, during one of the kisses, the tip of Steve’s tongue moves delicately over Bucky’s bottom lip, Bucky gasps out loud in surprise and delight. And then, just like that, it’s not enough. Bucky slots his hand at the back of Steve’s neck, feeling the soft short hairs there under his fingers, and pulls him in to hold Steve’s mouth where he wants it.

Steve grunts a little but puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and happily takes the kissing to the next level, sealing his mouth on Bucky’s and running his tongue between Bucky’s lips. Bucky opens up for him, feels Steve’s tongue in his mouth and sliding over his top teeth. Bucky sucks gently on it for a second, and is rewarded with a soft moan.

Bucky feels lit up from the inside. He’s never had kisses like this before, never felt this way just from kissing someone before. The warm sensation travels outward from his gut and suffuses his entire body and his dick is already three-quarters hard and _holy shit_ , they’re just kissing, what’s going to happen when they move on to other things...

As if he’s read Bucky’s mind, Steve pulls away from Bucky’s mouth and looks at him heatedly for a moment. Before Bucky can react, he rocks back from his knees to stand in one fluid motion and take a step back. Never breaking eye contact with Bucky, Steve takes off his shoes and socks, divests himself of his jeans, and pulls his t-shirt over his head. He stands there for a few seconds wearing only his boxer briefs, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp, looking like a Greek god with chest hair.

Bucky drinks in this image, scanning Steve up and down with avid eyes. Of course he’s seen Steve in his swim trunks at the beach, but only in covert glimpses. He takes in the _huge_ shoulders, the light coat of hair over those _absurd_ pecs, the line of hair bisecting the abs that leads down to and beyond the navel in the middle of a narrow waist, the _frankly obscene_ cum gutters peeking out of the waistband of the briefs.

_Mine_ , says Bucky to himself greedily. _All for me._ He can’t wait to get his hands on this buffet. His hands reach up to pull off his t-shirt.

But Steve has other plans. Quick as a wink, he peels off his boxers, kneels down again, grabs Bucky’s hands, and murmurs, “That’s my job,” before leaning in for a bruising kiss. Bucky moans into his mouth. Steve’s lips move over to Bucky’s ear and he whispers, “What do you want, Buck. I’m yours, all yours. Tell me what you want.”

At this Bucky’s dick twitches and he realizes he’s fully erect in his pj bottoms. Steve is kissing down Bucky’s neck, moving his t-shirt out of the way, leaving little nips as he goes, as Bucky gasps, “Oh god, fuck me, Steve, please. Fuck me nice and slow.”

He hears Steve’s breath catch and feels Steve’s teeth bite a little heavier into his collarbone. _That’s gonna leave a mark_ , Bucky thinks, and that thought goes straight to his crotch. He’s never been one for getting marked up before, but he’s also never felt about anyone else the way he does about Steve.

Steve lifts his head and looks at Bucky, intense, wild, pupils entirely blown. “I’m going to fuck you,” he rumbles. “But first I’m going to worship you and take care of you like you deserve.” His expression softens a little as he looks at Bucky’s face, and he reaches out to caress Bucky’s jaw.

“I love you,” Steve murmurs, and leans in for a kiss that is somehow tender and filthy and possessive all at once and if that isn’t _hot as fuck_ , Bucky doesn’t know what is. His heart soars.

“I love you too, Steve,” Bucky whispers when Steve moves back. Steve pulls Bucky’s t-shirt over his head and stands him up next to the bed. He undoes the drawstring of Bucky’s pj bottoms and pushes on them so they fall to the floor around Bucky’s ankles. Bucky quickly steps out of them and stands in front of Steve fully naked, every inch of his skin tingling as Steve looks him up and down.

“So beautiful, Buck,” Steve says, awe stamped on his features. Bucky turns pink. He can feel his heat rising and gulps before he speaks to keep his voice from breaking.

“You gonna fuck me now or what, Rogers,” Bucky says, trying and failing to sound casual, his breathing almost giving out on the last word.

Steve smiles and manhandles Bucky onto his back on the bed, covers him with his body, and licks up the side of his neck to his ear before whispering, “So beautiful and so impatient. I told you I was going to worship you like you deserve, let me worship you.”

And Steve does. He kisses Bucky breathless, slotting their mouths together and dipping his tongue between Bucky’s lips, slow and languorous. He kisses down Bucky’s throat to his collarbone, worries that spot he’s already marked a bit more. He licks down Bucky’s left pec to his nipple and swirls his tongue around it, taking his time, before he moves across to the other one. He kisses down Bucky’s stomach, over the light thatch of hair to his belly button, and then, finally, down his lower abs to pay attention to his dick.

Bucky gave up being impatient about five minutes into this process, and has now just closed his eyes and given in to the steady feeling of pleasure. He feels like he’s floating, almost drugged, as Steve worships his body with his mouth. Every part of him feels warm and glowing under Steve’s attention, and he focuses on the delicious feeling suffusing his entire body.

Which is why it’s such a shock, but a delightful one, when Steve finally moves his head between Bucky’s legs and licks over the tip of his dick. Suddenly all that pleasure rushes to one spot and Bucky gasps and lifts his head an inch or two off the pillow at the sensation. Steve smiles at this and licks a broad stripe up his cock before delicately dipping his tongue into Bucky’s slit a few times, licking around the crown and taking Bucky’s shaft into his mouth. At which point Bucky wonders if you can die from a blowjob.

After a few minutes of Steve’s expert ministrations, Bucky worries he’s going to end this party way too soon and grabs Steve’s hair.

“Please,” he begs. “Please. Fuck me, Steve. _Please_.”

Steve lifts his head from his work and smiles. He gracefully moves back up Bucky’s body to kiss him again so Bucky can taste his own pre-come and Bucky moans at how ridiculously hot _that_ is.

“You want me inside you, is that it,” says Steve against Bucky’s mouth, their breath mingling. “You want this inside you.” And Steve grinds against Bucky’s hip so Bucky can feel his hardness.

“Oh god, yes,” Bucky says, lifting up a bit to kiss Steve again and swipe his tongue across Steve’s top lip. “Please...”

But then Bucky’s brain comes back online enough for him to think about logistics and he groans, “Oh shit, we don’t have condoms. Or lube.”

Steve smiles, his eyes sparkling, and he reaches over to the bedside table and pulls out both from the drawer. Bucky looks at him incredulously. “How did you...”

“At Boots yesterday,” Steve says, opening the lube bottle. “I didn’t just need toothpaste.”

“Did you know...” Bucky starts, but Steve cuts him off.

“I hoped,” he says gently. “And I wanted to be prepared.” His eyes glint again as he pours some lube on his fingers. “Do you still want me inside you, or have you changed your mind.”

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat and he says, “Fuck yes, get me ready, _please_.” He spreads his legs open on the bed.

Steve lays a sweet kiss on his mouth and then Bucky can feel Steve’s caressing down his balls and circling his hole. As with everything else, Steve takes a minute or two to get Bucky feeling awash in pleasure as his fingers stroke at the tight ring of muscle, so that when one finger slides into him it’s another delightful shock. Steve keeps kissing him, swallowing Bucky’s moans as he pushes into him with one finger - then two - then three, scissoring him open but staying away from his prostate.

When Bucky feels like he can’t take it anymore, he begs again.

“Please, Steve, please,” he whispers. “I need your cock. Please.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers back against Bucky’s mouth, and sits up. Without fully removing his fingers from Bucky’s ass, Steve squirts more lube on them to push deep into Bucky’s hole. Then quick as a wink, he pulls them out, opens the condom, and smoothes it on, pumping at his shaft a few times. Bucky feels Steve’s dick slide between his cheeks and nudge against his asshole.

“Yessss,” Bucky hisses, eyes closing. Slowly, very slowly, Steve breaches that tight ring and pushes forward, little by little. Soon the slight burn warms into pleasure as Bucky feels Steve move into him, pushing his walls open. It seems to take forever but finally Steve’s lower abdomen is flush with Bucky’s balls.

Bucky is almost beside himself. He feels so _full_ , so _connected_ to Steve right now. The entire world has contracted to this bed, to the two of them, to the small space where they are joined. It’s overwhelming, in the best way. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Steve chooses this moment to start really fucking him, pushing into him with long, smooth strokes, and it is _so good_. The feel of Steve inside him, the delicious friction, creates a ball of warmth deep in his gut and he feels his heat rising.

“Bucky,” Steve says after a few minutes. “Buck. Look at me.”

Bucky’s eyes pop open, cloudy with pleasure, to look at Steve. Steve’s mouth is open and his pupils are blown and his chest is heaving and he’s the best fucking thing Bucky’s ever seen.

“I’m gonna need you to come for me, Buck,” Steve growls, and with that he leans back just a bit and changes his angle slightly so his dick is constantly pounding against Bucky’s prostate. With that shift Bucky sees stars and his vision greys out in the corners. He locks his ankles around Steve’s hips to give him even deeper access.

“Oh god, Steve, _oh god_...” he hears himself whisper. Or is he yelling? At that moment it doesn’t matter, because his vision greys out and there’s a roaring in his ears and everything is sensation and feeling. Within half a minute he’s coming on Steve’s cock and he can feel the thick spurts hit his stomach and chest.

“Fuck, Bucky, you are so beautiful,” Steve rasps, and speeds up his thrusts. As his orgasm subsides, Bucky can feel the overstimulation from Steve’s cock and it is _everything_. He whines and moans as Steve pushes into him, and when Steve’s dick pulses inside him as he comes, his own twitches with satisfaction.

Steve sighs loudly and collapses carefully onto Bucky, heedless of the mess on Bucky’s torso.They lie there for a minute - an hour? - or two enjoying the aftershocks and endorphins. Bucky feels again like he’s floating, reveling in the heat pouring out between them and the stretch of where they’re still joined. He keeps his legs crossed around Steve so he can’t pull out yet.

Steve lifts his head and looks at Bucky for a moment before sealing his lips to Bucky’s in a sweet but searing kiss.

“I love you, Bucky. I love you so much,” Steve whispers as he looks at Bucky and gently cards his fingers through Bucky’s curls, damp around his face from exertion. “I’m all yours, if you’ll have me.”

Bucky gazes at Steve’s face and sees the love beaming from his smile, from his eyes, and realizes again that Steve is _it_ for him. That Steve is all he ever wanted. His eyes fill up and overflow and he chokes on a sob/laugh. And all the doubt and worry and pining drain from his body in one big release and he can’t stop crying or laughing.

“I love you too, Steve,” he manages to say between sobs.

Steve looks alarmed for a second as Bucky starts to cry but he quickly understands and leans forward to kiss him, tears are flowing from his eyes too. They stay wrapped tight around each other for a while longer, and the realization settles deep into Bucky’s chest that this is home. He’s home.

*****

Hours later Bucky and Steve are lying entangled on the huge bed in the dark. They’ve fucked a couple more times, absolutely destroying the sheets and making sticky, sweaty messes of each other, so they’ve showered and put new linens on the bed. The dirty ones are tumbling around in the washing machine in a closet off the kitchen.

Bucky is completely exhausted but completely happy as he snuggles up against Steve’s huge, warm body, his head pillowed on Steve’s shoulder and his right arm draped across Steve’s chest. This was not how he thought tonight would go, but for once he’s thrilled with the unexpected surprise.

Steve has hooked one leg under Bucky’s ankle and he reaches back with the arm cradling Bucky’s head to gently caress Bucky’s hair. Bucky revels in the contact and is floating in that space between waking and sleeping. _Finally_ , he thinks as his awareness drifts, _this bed doesn’t seem too big anymore_...not with Steve here to share it with him.

“Hey love,” whispers Steve, turning to kiss Bucky’s forehead.

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles, leaning into the kiss.

“I just remembered we’re supposed to go home in a few days,” Steve says gently. “Do you want to head back to Brooklyn or stay in the UK for a little longer. Either one is fine with me, as long as I’m with you.” The tone of Steve’s voice makes it abundantly clear that ultimately this is Bucky’s choice and he’ll support whatever decision Bucky makes.

Bucky wakes up a little at this. He hadn’t realized so much time had passed. He thinks for a minute about his options - neither one of them is bad. He’s gotten a lot of work done on his _ELH_ article and he could go home tomorrow and be proud of the progress he’s made. And he’s got this exciting new research possibility with the Meredith manuscript. And either way, Steve will be with him, which is both comforting and exhilarating.

Suddenly an image flashes into Bucky’s mind of him and Steve going up to Oxford to visit the Austen archives, going to Surrey to see where Meredith lived - and hiking up Box Hill for that _Emma_ experience! Spending a few days in London...maybe contacting Maria Hill at Yale to visit her and see the Meredith archives when they get back to the US...he’s always thought it would be great to work with her somehow...

Bucky hugs closer to Steve and whispers, “I think we should stay for a few more weeks. I could visit the Austen library, and if I’m going to take on that manuscript, there are some places we should visit...and I could show you my old college at Oxford...”

Steve chuckles, low and sweet, and the sound vibrates against Bucky’s head and arm.

“I’ll call British Airways tomorrow,” he says, kissing Bucky’s forehead again. “I can’t wait to do all that stuff with you. I should also go get some canvas and a few tubes of oils tomorrow, if I’m gonna start on that painting.”

“Painting?” Bucky says, confused, and then remembers all of Steve’s scratching in his sketchbooks. “Did you find a sketch you wanted to paint?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, chuckling again. “I mean, most of them, but there’s one in particular...”

“Is it the Channel from the patio?” asks Bucky. “That’s such a beautiful view.” Steve clears his throat and pauses.

“It’s you on the jetty,” he says, a little hesitantly. “All of my sketches are of you, but that one is my favorite. I’ll show it to you tomorrow...I’ll show them all to you tomorrow.”

“Oh. Wow,” Bucky says, embarrassed but pleased. “I’ve never been in a painting before, this is exciting.”

“I’m counting on the idea that you’ll agree to be in a lot more,” Steve says. “Since you’ve become my new inspiration.” Bucky’s stomach jolts at the intensity in Steve’s voice.

“Well then,” Bucky says, a little cheeky. “I guess I’ll have to learn how to be a good muse to a great artist.” And he moves his hand down from Steve’s chest to his abdomen, trailing his fingers along his external obliques to caress his hipbone.

“The first thing a good muse does is let his artist get a little rest,” growls Steve, grabbing Bucky’s hand and manhandling him over on his side to spoon him.

Bucky sighs and pulls Steve’s left arm over his shoulders. He feels surrounded and protected by Steve’s bulk. It makes his heart warm. Right before he closes his eyes, he notices the old alarm clock on the bedside table, which reads 3.48 AM.

“Steve?” he says quietly. “Are Theresa and Hannah going to expect us at breakfast at 9?”

Steve’s been nuzzling against the back of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky can feel him smile.

“I think we’ll get a pass this time,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not being an expert on English literature research, I have my doubts that mixing Austen and Meredith as research areas would happen in real-life academia, but it’s fun to make it up for the story. 
> 
> This is the last chapter of the main story, but stay tuned for an epilogue that is soft and ties everything up with a little Austen-approved bow.


	10. Coming Home and Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Welcome home, love,” Steve murmurs in Bucky’s ear and Bucky melts a little to hear that voice, with the rumble in it that is just for him. 
> 
> “Welcome home, Stevie,” Bucky returns, and nuzzles into Steve’s neck. A few seconds later, as if on cue, someone yells outside and a siren sounds a few blocks away, loud and insistent. The two men pull back from each other and laugh. 
> 
> “New York, I missed you!” calls Bucky in a sarcastic voice, although there’s part of him that is perfectly sincere. He loves this city, even in mid-August when summer is past its sell-by date and the dirt-flecked humidity hangs in the air into the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just some well-earned returning home fluff to tie up any remaining loose ends and an *illuminating* epilogue.

“Oh my god, it is so stuffy in here!” Bucky calls out as he walks into the apartment in Brooklyn Heights. He leaves his suitcase in the kitchen and drops his laptop bag on the couch as he scurries around to turn on the A/C units around the house.

Steve follows him into the apartment a half-minute later and says, “Oh man, no shit!” He leaves his suitcase next to Bucky’s and goes to stand in front of the living room air conditioner, lifting up his arms to get some quick coolness over his torso and under his armpits.

“I’m sooooo hot,” Steve whines.

Bucky comes out of his bedroom and grins when he sees Steve.

“Stop hoggin’ the A/C, Rogers,” he says, cheeky, and ambles over behind his boyfriend. “Besides, you’re always gonna be too hot, tsssss...” He licks his finger and taps Steve quickly on the bicep like he’s a hot frying pan. Steve chuckles and turns to engulf Bucky in a huge hug.

“Welcome home, love,” Steve murmurs in Bucky’s ear and Bucky melts a little to hear that voice, with the rumble in it that is just for him.

“Welcome home, Stevie,” Bucky returns, and nuzzles into Steve’s neck. A few seconds later, as if on cue, someone yells outside and a siren sounds a few blocks away, loud and insistent. The two men pull back from each other and laugh.

“New York, I missed you!” calls Bucky in a sarcastic voice, although there’s part of him that is perfectly sincere. He loves this city, even in mid-August when summer is past its sell-by date and the dirt-flecked humidity hangs in the air into the evening.

Steve pulls out his phone and checks the time before hitting a few buttons. “We can catch Hannah and Theresa just before bed,” he says, bringing up FaceTime and dialing as he puts his arm around Bucky to keep him in place. The two women pick up after a few rings.

“Darlings!” Theresa says, her striking face appearing next to Hannah’s. They’re standing in the kitchen and have obviously just finished the washing up.

“Did you get home OK? It looks like you’re in the apartment,” Hannah asks, looking like she’s trying to peer behind them to see the background.

“Yeah, Hannah, we got here, no problem,” says Steve. “The flight was on time and customs wasn’t too bad. Surprisingly. The BQE was the worst part.”

“The BQE sucked? Shocking,” says Hannah, grinning.

“Thanks again for having us,” Bucky pipes up, snuggling closer to Steve. “It was such a wonderful trip.”

“...Mostly. Despite my best efforts,” Steve cuts in, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at himself.

“That is too true, Steven, darling,” Theresa says coolly. “Good thing you came to your senses.” Steve squeezes Bucky’s shoulder and turns to kiss his cheek.

“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

“How’s our baby?” Bucky asks, as though he hadn’t just seen the manuscript last night before they left for Heathrow early this morning.

Hannah chuckles. “It’s fine, Bucky, it’s back in the linen closet in the guesthouse.” The four of them had debated what to do with the papers, and had decided to leave them in Dorset for safekeeping, at least for now. There’s plenty of time to figure out their long-term home.

Bucky’s got two full sets of photostats in his laptop bag; he’s already talked to Maria Hill at Yale about them and she’s coming down from New Haven next week to talk with him about a possible research collaboration. He knows Hill from conferences and her work on socio-political issues of the later Victorian age as reflected in the novels of Hardy and Meredith, and he’s excited about the possibility of working with her.

And Bucky hasn’t told _anyone_ this yet, not even Steve, but the seeds of a novel have planted themselves in his mind and he’s scratched down several hesitant, disjointed pages of notes in his little leather-bound travel journal. The ideas are flowering like crazy in his head and soon he’ll be ready to share them with his boyfriend and start typing them up. He’s not sure when he’ll have time for his own writing in the midst of academic research and teaching, but he’ll make it work. 

Bucky grins. “Excellent. Perfect storage place.”

“Well, I know it’s late over there, but we just wanted to say hi and let you know we’re home,” says Steve. “We’ll talk soon.”

Theresa says, “Goodnight, my dears” at the same time Hannah says, “Love you both!” The usual brief awkwardness at the end of a FaceTime call ensues.

Steve puts his phone down, hugs Bucky again, and kisses the top of his head. “What d’ya wanna do now?” he asks. “It’s only six forty-five...”

“But it’s almost midnight in the UK,” Bucky interrupts. “I know we should stay up to get back on Eastern time but honestly all I want to do is take a cool shower and sit around in my underwear watching Bake-Off and then go to bed early.”

“Sold,” Steve says, kissing Bucky’s head again, then planting a sweet kiss on his mouth. He sees Bucky looking at the suitcases cluttering up the kitchen and says, “Ennhhh, tomorrow. Leave them for now.” He takes Bucky’s hand and tugs him insistently down the hallway toward the bathroom.

“So when you say ‘shower,’” Steve says, eyes twinkling, as they open the bathroom door. “Do you mean ‘your boyfriend blows you while he’s kneeling on the bathmat before standing you in the cool water while he cleans and caresses every inch of your beautiful body’ or do you just mean a regular shower?”

A spark flies up Bucky’s spine and his breath catches in his throat.

“Well, when you put it _that_ way...” he rasps. “I think I could stay up just a _bit_ later.” He pulls Steve into the bathroom.

A few hours later they’re lying in Bucky’s bed, cool, clean, and content. It’s not really that late but they’re still on Greenwich Mean Time and they’ve already dozed off once on the couch watching _GBBO_. Hey, they’re tired and Sandy and Noel’s voices can be very soothing, especially when they’re talking about choux pastry!

Steve is tucked up behind Bucky, his body heat seeping into Bucky from the back of his neck to his feet. It’s still too hot for covers so they’ve pushed them to the bottom of bed for now. The A/C unit hums in the window, an ostenato of soothing white noise in the background, drowning out the night noises of the city.

“What does tomorrow look like,” murmurs Steve in Bucky’s ear.

“Tomorrow and this weekend we’re doing absolutely nothing but unpacking, laundry, and lying around,” Bucky says sleepily, snuggling back closer toward Steve’s chest. “All those new _Queer Eye_ episodes aren’t going to watch themselves. We can go back to work on Monday.”

“We just need to make sure we’re here for the delivery tomorrow...” Steve starts to say, his voice a little worried.

“We’ll be here,” reassures Bucky. Steve’s painting of Bucky on the jetty is almost finished. Theresa arranged to have it shipped home via her high-value courier service, since it was too big for carry-on and Steve wasn’t trusting it to British Airways baggage handling nohow.

Steve’s got a whole set of paintings featuring Bucky in Dorset that he’s got planned out; he’s got three sketchbooks full of studies currently nestled in his laptop bag in the kitchen. They’ll be a big part of Steve’s portfolio as he goes up for tenure this fall. Bucky is a little overwhelmed at all the attention and at the idea of being such a crucial part of Steve’s career. But if he’s honest, he’s also thrilled to be such a crucial part of Steve’s career. It’s a heady feeling to act as muse to his boyfriend and roommate.

As he thinks about Steve as his roommate, Bucky remembers their terrible late-night conversation in the guesthouse in Fleet after his nightmare, remembers something Steve said when he told Bucky why they couldn’t be together, why they should just stay friends...

“Hey Stevie,” Bucky whispers. Steve grunts in response.

“You sure this whole relationship thing isn’t too weird for you?” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice level and not to giggle hysterically. “I mean, technically you _are_ my tenant...it could get really awkward.”

It takes Steve a few seconds to comprehend what Bucky’s talking about, then he makes a noise in the back of his throat and pulls Bucky closer to him.

“You using my own words against me, Barnes?” he growls. “I mean, they were stupid, scared words, but still...”

“Yeah, they were pretty stupid,” Bucky responds. Giving Steve shit is his third most favorite thing in the world (after loving Steve and getting railed into next week by Steve, of course).

“James Buchanan Barnes,” hisses Steve, and bites Bucky’s neck hard enough to make him shiver. “Do I have to put you over my knee.”

“Is that a promise,” Bucky shoots back. Steve chuckles, then yawns loudly.

“Let’s go to sleep and I’ll figure out your punishment in the morning,” he says, kissing the spot on Bucky’s neck he just bit.

“Excellent, I look forward to it,” sighs Bucky, melting a bit further into the sheets.

They’re quiet for a few minutes and Bucky’s almost sure Steve is passed out when he hears the faintest whisper from behind him.

“Hey Buck,” it says.

“Yeah,” he whispers back.

“I love you,” he hears.

Bucky smiles. He remembers the drama and heartache of early July, but all that seems like ancient history after a perfect month with Steve in the UK. And he’s looking forward to living here in New York with Steve, encouraging each other, sharing their lives together. He’s still a little incredulous that all this is real, that Steve is truly _his_ , but like Captain Wentworth, he’s learning to subdue his mind to his fortune, to brook being happier than he deserves.

“I love you too, Steve,” he whispers into the darkness. Minutes later they’re asleep.

*****

London, an early Friday evening, mid-August. It’s warm and sunny, but nowhere near as oppressive as New York, and there’s a gentle breeze coming off the river. Residents and tourists alike are taking advantage of the good weather and the streets and outdoor cafes are packed.

Theresa sits in a prime spot in the corner of the Ivy Chelsea Garden. The terrace is buzzing, crowded with after-work drinkers and diners, but the waitstaff and the terrace manager are discreetly keeping a buffer around her table. She orders a house G&T and it arrives quickly despite the bar backlog.

As always, Theresa looks spotless and formidable in her dark green sheath dress and Louboutins, but sits back in her seat, relaxed and at ease, legs crossed, smiling warmly at her server. You’d never know she was waiting for someone.

A few minutes later a beautiful redhead appears on the veranda behind the hostess. She sees Theresa, then thanks the hostess graciously and says she can make her way on her own.

The redhead is carrying a thin black leather jacket and wearing a sleeveless black blouse with a high neck, skintight burgundy tailored pants, four-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos, and black Ray-Bans. Her hair tumbles in loose curls down her back. As she walks calmly but purposefully toward the corner table, most of the men and a fair number of the women turn their heads to look at her, their eyes hungry and curious. Theresa smiles to herself at this reaction - it’s not the first time she’s seen it, after all.

The redhead reaches Theresa’s table and the older woman stands to say, “Natashenka” and give her a quick hug and they kiss each other’s cheeks once, twice, three times. As they sit down Theresa gives a barely perceptible nod toward her server, who immediately approaches and takes the redhead’s drink order - straight Mamont vodka, chilled.

“You can take the girl out of Russia,” Theresa murmurs (in Russian) as the server hurries away, and the corner of Natasha’s flawless mouth quirks up. She takes off her sunglasses.

“Old habits,” Nat says, in English. Her vodka shot arrives a couple of minutes later, and she and Theresa toast before they drink. They sit in silence for a minute or two before Nat speaks.

“Report?” she says briskly. Nat would never say this in this tone of voice at work to someone so senior to her, but as this is not a professional meeting she feels she can take the liberty.

Now it’s Theresa’s lips that lift up in a tiny smile.

“Objective achieved and operation complete,” she says, taking another sip of her G&T. “Targets arrived at the Brooklyn Heights apartment yesterday after an idyllic month of staying with us and traipsing around the romantic spots of England.”

“And...and...” Nat is suddenly hesitant, less sure of herself. “They’re happy?”

“They FaceTimed us late last night to tell us they’d made it home. Huge smiles, heart eyes for days, fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union, et cetera.” Theresa sounds sarcastic but her expression is fond, almost loving.

Nat smiles, a real smile this time.

“And Rogers got his head out of his ass?” she says, motioning to their server for a second vodka shot. “That was always the biggest threat to this mission.”

“It took a while and required some deployment of alternative protocols.” Theresa rolls her eyes. “But yes. Finally.”

This time Nat’s smile shows teeth. “Excellent work, ma’am,” she says. Her second vodka shot arrives and she lifts her glass. “To Operation Two Numpties,” she says. Theresa smiles back.

“Cheers,” she says, and takes another sip of her drink as Nat tosses back the shot. “Do you want to join us for some hors d’oeuvres? Hannah’s meeting at the Wallace ran long but she should be here shortly.”

Natasha shakes her head.

“Thank you,” she says in Russian. “But I have to get back to another mission with much less adorable targets. Unfortunately. Please give Hannah my love.”

“Understood,” Theresa responds in Russian and gets up as Nat does. “And I will.” They kiss again and Natasha struts off, putting her Ray-Bans back on, and garnering the same attention from the work crowd on the patio as she leaves.

Theresa sits back down, shaking her head. A moment later her phone buzzes with a text from Hannah saying she’ll be there in ten minutes. Theresa smiles at the screen and leans back in her chair, staring out over the veranda. She’d never admit it to Natasha and she’d even have trouble admitting it to Hannah, but her heart is full.

_THE END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and commenting, everyone! This has been a joy to write and now I may have to go back and read all my Austen novels for the hundredth time. Hugs xoxo


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